The Gun
by Nyx6
Summary: When Ben becomes dangerously infatuated with a widowed neighbour, it's up to Adam to expose the truth about the woman's unpredictable son and his involvement in her husband's murder. A newly escaped killer only complicates things further. Posted as a whole.


Once again being posted as a whole in order to stop it wasting away in the vast depths of my computer. Enjoy!

….

**Chapter One.**

Crisp, was how Adam would have described the morning had anyone thought to ask – which they hadn't. The wind still carried hints of winter, bitter if stood in for too long but tempered by the cloudless blue sky and brilliant sunshine. Spring was inching in, elbowing aside the gloom and the frost to replace it with blossom, birdsong and a million other poetry-worthy natural wonders.

Bees, there were bees too.

All in all it was the sort of morning that made people glad to be out and about; be it down mending fences as Hoss and Joe were doing; checking on the progress with the lumber contractors as his father was; or sauntering through town with a list of supplies to collect as he was doing. It was just good to be out-of-doors and not drenched, snowed-on or freezing.

It had been a long and frugal winter for the Cartwrights – not so much saving money as simply unable to spend it as one by one all the roads between Virginia City and the Ponderosa had become impassable slicks of mud, floodwater and debris. Pursuits of neither the recreational nor retail kind had featured much in the clean-up operation – which was something the eldest Cartwright boy was about to put right.

The handgun had been sitting in the window of Spence Pullen's for weeks now, demanding the admiration of every red-blooded man in town and not without good reason. It was a beauty; ivory grips, silver inlay, deep scrollwork engraving; at first glance more ornament than firearm but no less deadly for all its grandeur. The price was pretty deadly too for that matter, which is why it had continued to sit in the window rather than someone's gun belt. Today however that was going to change; Adam had made up his mind.

As well as the usual gathering outside the shop front, there was only one other person inside Spence Pullen's as he let himself in beneath the jangling bell, a scowling, red-headed boy somewhere in his late teens staring longingly at the revolver and recognisable immediately as young Lowell Gilder, despite an obvious growth-spurt that had hit sometime over the winter. The scowl he was wearing however, was not new, it's positioning upon his face noteworthy only in its rare absences. Truth be told, Lowell Gilder had always been something of a spoilt, petulant child, a kid of few words and usually surly ones at that. Not that it stopped Adam – or anybody else in Virginia City for that matter – from trying to be civil,

"Morning Lowell," he began brightly, taking off his hat to hold it in gloved hands, "Your father with you today?"

He needn't have bothered to ask; Lowell said nothing, simply staring at Adam long and hard before nodding, once, as if that tiny gesture alone had been nothing short of a momentous undertaking. Adam blinked back at him, caught somewhere between mild offence and general amusement.

Brian Gilder was an old acquaintance of the Cartwright's, as fastidious as his son was grumpy and more exacting besides. There wasn't so much as a cent that passed through his ranch in cash, livestock or material goods that he didn't know about, hadn't calculated, checked, double-checked and recorded. A brilliant businessman no question, but not exactly first-class fatherhood material.

Luckily the kid was saved a lecture by the timely arrival of a tall, white-haired man behind the counter, built like a barn despite his obviously advancing years. On seeing his latest customer the grin he'd been wearing widened instantly, sensing – with the appearance of a Cartwright – a sale heading his way.

"Well, good morning Adam," he beamed, "Long time since we saw you in town."

"Long time since I've been in town. Been a hard winter."

"Sure has, sure has," Spence Pullen agreed keenly before pausing for just a moment to regain a careful sense of nonchalance, "So, what can I do for you?"

It took the shop keep less than a second to answer the question for himself, taking in Adam's self-assured smirk and needing little else. He knew from the moment he'd bought the gun that it would end up in the hands of a Cartwright – he'd had banked on it, and evidently he'd been right to.

"Right you are Adam, right you are," he nodded, suddenly gripped by pre-sale enthusiasm, "Let me go and get her for you – I tell you Adam she's a beaut, a real beaut make no mistake. A sure-fire winner,"

His customer regarded him wryly, grinning as he turned away from the counter,

"For that price she'd better be,"

It was an expression that faded upon catching sight of Lowell Gilder, by now all-out glaring at him from across the room where he stood beside the precious firearm which he'd obviously – and presumably with a great deal of misplaced optimism – been eyeing for himself. Clearing his throat a little under the continued scrutiny, Adam turned back again, the grin moving from cheerful to rueful. If his chances of getting any pleasantries out of the boy had been limited before, they were non-existent now. Spence Pullen however, seemed indifferent to the radiating animosity.

"There," he breathed almost reverently as he passed the firearm across, watching greedily as Adam began a careful examination – almost pointlessly since they both knew the gun was already as good as sold, "What did I tell you?"

Adam smiled again, keeping his eyes along the barrel of the gun as he pointed it up towards an imaginary spot on the wall, shifting its weight around his hand and feeling his fingers brush against the smooth ivory surface.

"It certainly is well-made,"

Behind them the shop door opened once more, Spence Pullen paying his newest visitor only the merest hint of acknowledgement before turning back towards Adam, salesman's hat still fully in place,

"That there ivory's all the way from Africa – biggest darned elephant on the plains they say, took near enough thirty shots to bring him down…"

"Lowell!" the new voice caught them both by surprise as much for its intensity as for its familiarity, "What on earth are you doing in here? Your mother and I have been waiting by the buggy for nearly eight minutes! We agreed upon twelve o'clock – you're not moping over that blessed gun again are you? How many times do I have to tell you? You are _not_ having that firearm!"

Glancing towards the newcomer with something of a smile, Adam turned to lean casually against the counter-top, the pistol glinting in his hands as he did,

"Brian," he drawled lazily, "I think I can solve that issue for you right now,"

Peering up in initial surprise, it took Brian Gilder less a second to break into a welcoming smile, warmth seamlessly replacing his earlier irritation,

"Adam!" he beamed, the expression only faltering at the sight of the item in his hands, "Oh now, don't tell me you're the one who's going to be wasting his money on that thing! A sensible man like you?!"

Pullen frowned,

"Now with all due respect – ," he began, leaning in across the counter only to be waved off by Adam,

"It's all right Spence," he chuckled teasingly, "Brian here just doesn't like anything that can't make its costs back up to him."

"You'd best mind I don't tell Ben about this extravagance of yours – ," Gilder continued, although heavy with mock disapproval. Pausing momentarily, he sobered, " – Which reminds me, I wondered your father might stop by the house tomorrow, there's something I wish to discuss with him."

"Of course, I'll let him know."

"Thank you – and as for you…" turning his attentions back towards Lowell, Gilder's tone suddenly seemed to rediscover its more scornful groove, "…out. Come on, there's work to be done back home and now that gun has been sold perhaps we can finally have some peace from you."

There was just about enough time for Lowell to shoot Adam one more murderous glare before stepping out of the shop altogether, taking the animosity with them. In the renewed silence Spence Pullen grinned and shook his head,

"Real friendly kid they got there," he commented dryly, making Adam smile.

"He'll grow out of it."

"Y'think?"

Apparently Spence hadn't been so convinced.

All in all it took less than ten minutes for Adam to make what, in actuality, had been all but a done deal from the moment he'd stepped into the shop. In deference to the continuing custom of the Cartwright family, Adam had been able to wrangle a deduction in price, but only a very minor one and not one he was utterly sure his father would ultimately consider a bargain. Still, Adam was a grown man and what he did with his own money had long been his own concern, he certainly wasn't a Lowell Gilder – too young and reckless to be trusted with any sort of currency and therefore beholden to a well meaning if penny-pinching father for his material perks. All things considered, perhaps the boy's mood wasn't a total mystery after all.

The crowd of people gathered around the jail momentarily caught Adam by surprise, the sudden speed by which Virginia City could turn from lazy and sedate to riled up and panicky seemingly getting quicker by the day. Amidst the various babble and excitement he could just about make out the newly-familiar red head of Lowell Gilder, although judging by the way nobody else in the horde was paying any attention to his approach, it wasn't a lynch-mob over the buying of the precious pistol – that was good. Instead all attention was on the jailhouse, and the beleaguered figure of Sheriff Roy Coffee, trying to make himself heard above the cacophony.

Standing to one side of the debate Adam found Brian Gilder, quietly watching with his wife Mercedes, a fancily dressed blonde who – so talk went – had once been the belle of Virginia City. Her marriage to the staid and unspectacular Brian had always been something of a local curiosity and her sharpness towards him had struck Adam as unkind more than once, but, through a combination of his monetary provisions and utter devotion to her, the pair had stuck together against all odds and the fractious little family unit were as resident as the Cartwrights, if generally less well-liked. Drawing in alongside, Adam tapped the brim of his hat respectfully towards Mrs. Gilder, watching her smile thinly in return, her manners better but no more sincere than her son's.

"Brian," he began by way of renewed greeting, "What's going on?"

"Man named Gracie escaped from jail two towns over, seems there's been a sighting of him nearby."

At the response Adam turned back to the crowd with a frown, not quite understanding the force of the resultant frenzy,

"What was he in jail for?"

"Murder," Mercedes Gilder filled in abruptly, her voice dark with accusation, "Killed two little girls in their own home when their father gave him a bed for the night – out of the goodness of his own heart."

"Mercy," Brian chided gently, tugging on her arm a little as if to silence her, "The man was awaiting trial. Ain't nobody yet said he's guilty and a man is considered innocent until such time as proved otherwise, you know that."

Dropping his head a little, Adam smiled ruefully, respecting Brian all the more for his considered impartiality but doubting the situation's simplicity,

"If he was innocent why did he run?" he asked instead, the sentence more of an external thought than a direct question although Brian Gilder took it as one all the same,

"Perhaps he feared an unfair trial,"

"Perhaps."

"You think he'll kill again?" Mercedes asked suddenly, her eyes on the crowd as she slipped an arm through her husband's. Adam turned to follow her gaze,

"Evidently somebody does," he responded absently, "And even if he is innocent then the real killer's still out there. Who knows what somebody like that is truly capable of."

It took him a second to realise that Mercedes Gilder was staring at him, her gaze penetrating and a little unnerving as they locked eyes for a brief second. Abruptly however the moment had passed, and, pulling her husband closer with a tiny shudder, she shook herself back into the present,

"Come on Brian, let's find Lowell and go home, I know I shan't feel safe until I'm back."

Patting her gently on one of her finely gloved hands Brian issued an indulgent smile,

"Of course my darling…Lowell! Come now boy,"

It was a request their only child met with yet another vicious glare, this time saved for his father's departing back although it also managed to include Adam in its wide sweep of contempt.

"I understand we're to expect a visit from your father tomorrow?" Mercedes was suddenly calling to him from the buggy, drawing his attention once more, "We must make more time to get together – it's been so long since we've seen him."

Which probably had something to do with the fact that Brian Gilder was a good friend and that Mercedes Keegan – as she had then been – and a younger Ben Cartwright had once been something of an item, at least until Marie had arrived on the scene and captured Ben's heart entirely. With the most eligible bachelor in town taken Mercedes had been left with very few financially viable options, Brian Gilder being one of the better choices.

Adam merely nodded,

"Of course. We'll see you tomorrow Brian,"

The trap pulled away from the jailhouse just as the crowd began to swell with intensity, and, as Roy Coffee's voice drifted above the melee in plaintive tones, Adam sighed and readjusted his hat.

Looked like it was shaping up to be an ugly morning after all.

….

**Chapter Two.**

Abel Gracie ran – a desperate, half-staggered kind of a run, wild and directionless, but a run all the same.

For the past few miles he'd been heavily impeded by a worsening leg-wound, inflicted courtesy of some errant barbed wire lacing a jagged path through an otherwise harmless-looking collection of scrub. It had ripped a tear straight through his mud-covered slacks, gouging a similar slice from the soft tissue at his calf and leaving a nasty mess of blood and rust in its wake, pink and enflamed, increasingly accompanied by the telltale signs of a growing fever. It was a situation he couldn't risk stopping to address.

He'd been chased from the moment he'd broken from jail, the beating hooves of the local posse mounts charging past his many varied hiding places more than once; often with only feet to spare. The people of Nevada were out for blood – his. The fact he was still one step ahead of them was by the grace of god alone.

Since he'd started to head for the border he'd made good progress, all things considered, but as the wound had started to stab and sting and his head had started to swim under the heavy fog of impending affliction, his pace had slowed noticeably. After a triumphant break-out and impressive head-start on his pursuers, Gracie was now being faced by two choices; either he continue to slow and risk capture, or he went to ground somewhere and risked the same thing. Only one of those choices allowed him the best chance to recuperate from his rising fever, and unfortunately for him it was the one that covered the least distance. He had to go to ground.

The Gilder Ranch was by no means the largest homestead in the area – he knew that for a fact, but it was however one of the more isolated properties, seemingly employing the least number of hired-hands and benefiting from a certain quiet vacancy. This was due in large part to Brian Gilder's reluctance to spend excess money on bunkhouses and sleeping quarters, which meant that when the working day was done, the Gilder Ranch ceased being a place of activity and instead lapsed into stillness – perfect for a family to relax in.

Perfect for a man running from the gallows.

Letting himself silently into the yard, Gracie fought back a sudden, fierce urge to head towards the house, drawn by the comforting orange light splashing out from the windows and down onto the dusty ground. It was a symbol of everything he did not have – warmth, security, family – and being reminded of it only made his longing increase. He knew that he was the sole reason for his own misfortunes, but the knowledge didn't help his sense of failure.

The barn was spacious, inhabited by only a handful of horses, each one carefully stalled and either already sleeping or else settled for the night. Not wanting to disturb them, as much for fear of one of them making a noise as for disturbing the peace himself, Gracie crept swiftly between them, making his way to an empty box at one end and lowering himself into the hay with a grimace of pain.

His leg was really hurting now, throbbing, pulsating with every corresponding beat of his own heart, as if keeping a steady rhythm. He was shocked by how tired he felt, the adrenaline ebbing as his fight or flight mechanism began to power down, releasing the pain from his aching limbs and sending them to the forefront of his mind. He was a wreck, and for the first time it occurred to him that he might not be able to go on.

Sitting back against the blanket of dried grass he let his head flop backwards, raising a hand to his glistening forehead – though whether wet from exertion or fever he couldn't tell. Shutting his eyes for the first time in over twenty-four hours, Gracie let a vision of two blonde girls dance through his mind, two little blonde figures skipping hand in hand, giggling. It calmed him almost at once, but it also took his sharpness with it.

The sound of a foot scuffing the hay made him sit bolt upright, the sudden movement sending waves of nausea and dizziness up into his head and making his vision blur so strongly that for a moment he couldn't make out the shape forming in front of him, light illuminating around it like a divine entity. Blinking to clear his focus however, he watched with a lurch of horror as the shape turned into a figure.

"Don't move," it instructed, at once revealing its youthfulness and making Abel think that maybe he had a chance after all.

"Kid!" he hissed, tumbling forward in an ungainly attempt to stumble to his feet but landing heavily on his knees instead as he reached towards the newcomer, "Kid don't! Listen – ,"

"Stay where you are," the boy commanded again, and as Abel sat back he momentarily caught a glint of harshness in the eyes gazing at him so unwaveringly.

"You – you not frightened of me kid?"

The boy blinked, seemingly a little affronted,

"I'm not a kid," he spat back irritably before cooling a little, "And no, I'm not frightened. I'm not frightened of anything."

"Good for you," Gracie chanced nervously, his tongue flickering absently across his dry cracked lips, "What's your name son?"

"I ain't your son either," came the reply, "But I know who you are – you're that man who escaped jail. Killed them girls."

"Now look, I can explain – ,"

"Don't."

A long pause followed the interruption, icy and drawn-out as each man considered his position.

"You gonna tell on me now boy? Bring the law round?"

Stepping closer still, until Gracie could see a shock of red hair, the boy simply blinked once more before tipping his head to one side as if contemplating the idea for the first time. Eventually he shook his head,

"No, I reckon not."

"Mind if I ask why?"

Instead of an answer, an unnervingly misplaced smirk met the question.

"Stay here."

Gracie shrugged,

"Where else am I going to go?"

As the boy backed off and away however, the convict allowed himself a smile of self-satisfaction. He was blessed – a living miracle. Twice now he'd escaped the hangman's noose, twice. He was all-but untouchable.

Abel Gracie was a man beyond the law.

….

**Chapter Three.**

If Spence Pullen's rare ivory-gripped, scrollwork engraved pistol had caused a stir in town, then the debate it had engendered on arriving at the Ponderosa – hung with deliberate nonchalance from Adam's gun belt – was almost inexhaustible.

Little Joe had been beside himself with an envious breed of excitement, practically snatching it from his eldest brother before turning it over relentlessly in his hands, running fingers across the carefully carved grooves, mock-firing at some imaginary assailant and letting his eyes catch their own reflection in the meticulously polished ivory gleam. In the end Adam had been forced to take it back for fear of its being worn out even before it had been used – earning a glare from the youngest which he'd ignored with well-practised ease, although the whole episode had then succeeded in triggering a long lament about diminished finances and Little Joe's seemingly woeful ability to hold on to money long enough to afford more than a beer and the occasional stake in a poker game. It was one they'd all heard before.

Hoss had been similarly intrigued, although his interest had run more to admiring the piece rather than giving it a full body inspection – not trusting himself with something so precious. Little Joe had laughed at him, assuring him that it was a gun same as anything else, but Hoss had still declined. It was just so pretty, and Adam had been so darned proud of himself that he felt it was best for everyone if just stuck to admiring it from afar – which wasn't a lot harder than admiring it up close. It was a beauty all right

Coming downstairs to find his three sons in raptures over a new acquisition, Ben had known instantly that a degree of money had been spent – a suspicion confirmed further by Adam's coy reluctance to part with the exact price, offering only that a 'deal' had been struck with Spence Pullen, which – if Ben knew Spence Pullen, and he did – didn't mean an awful lot. Adam however had been at his persuasive best, the counter-argument so well planned that by the end of the short conversation Ben wasn't even sure that his point still stood, which he supposed was his own fault for having had his eldest educated so thoroughly.

"_How much was it son?" _

"_Well it wasn't cheap Pa, but I did knock Spence down a little,"_

"_How much is a little?"_

_"A little – but you've really got to think about it in investment terms,"_

"_Investment terms?"_

"_Well sure, it might seem expensive now, but this is a collectors piece. In ten, twenty years time it will be even more rare than it is now, which means it will be more expensive. If I hold out for the right price I'll have doubled my money. It's good business sense Pa."_

"…_I see."_

Apparently both the intensive schooling and the handgun had been Cartwright money well spent.

Eventually however, after the gun had finally gone away for the night, Adam had moved onto other business. News of the escaped prisoner it seemed had beaten him back to the Ponderosa, with both his father and brothers having heard it several times during the course of the day but having little more to report on the matter. It had only been as everyone was contemplating heading up for bed that Adam had belatedly remembered Brian Gilder's request for a meeting, upon which Ben had promptly rearranged the his plans for the next day and invited his eldest son to join him on the ride to the Gilder homestead – which was where the early morning had found them, negotiating the track north of the Ponderosa; a cloudless sky above them, dewy grass below them, and a bracing wind at their faces.

The ride was a pleasant one, each man silently enjoying the easy company of the other. During the winter the Cartwright's had become pretty accustomed to living on top of one another without much room to manoeuvre, spending their evenings sitting around the same fire and their days at the same hard graft necessitated by a harsh winter, treading on one another's toes, fraying tempers and variously pushing the boundaries of one another's patience. With the promise of spring however, the world opened up once more, freeing each of them to spread out as they saw fit and making their subsequent comings-together something to be better enjoyed – which was how both men viewed their morning's visit.

Trotting up towards the Gilder Ranch, Adam paused, shifting a little atop Sport and letting his eyes sweep the yard from his vantage point before frowning mildly,

"It's quiet."

Beside him, swinging down and leading his mount over towards the hitching post, Ben stifled a fond yet despairing smile,

"They're probably all making their way in. You know I've told Brian a dozen time to build himself a decent bunkhouse."

"Then why doesn't he?"

"Something about Mercedes not liking all the activity," Ben offered in response, waving a hand airily as if he thought the whole thing nonsense. Adam smiled wryly,

"He does dote on her, doesn't he?"

"He's a husband,"

Adam nodded,

"He's also a rancher."

Catching his son's eyes Ben smiled, his eldest's thought mirroring arguments he himself had had with Brian Gilder many a-time to no avail.

"A good one," he offered instead, turning to climb the steps of the little porch and knock upon the door with a gloved fist.

The house was a homely one, both the interior and exterior and down in no small part to the careful dictation of Mercedes Gilder, rendering it full of lace, silks and ornate furnishings as a result. About the only place that still remained plain and austere was Brian's study, as built for functional and business as the man himself and, as yet, resistant to all suggestions of redecoration.

"Brian?!"

As his attempts at knocking fell on apparently deaf-ears, Ben banged harder against the heavy wooden door, trying to check his surprise that the Gilder patriarch was not already standing before them having anticipated their arrival as was usual. For the second time however, nobody responded and so he turned instead to look at Adam, his son's resulting question echoing his own thoughts word for word.

"Where is everyone?"

The scream that radiated out from the barn caught them both by surprise, the sound echoing across the yard and bouncing back at them underneath the overhanging porch as if amplified by the sudden confines. They were away from under it and pounding across the space almost before they'd registered they were moving, the action an instinctual one.

They were only inches away from the doors when a figure stumbled out of it and into Ben's arms, the scream turning into a sudden strangled sob as terror and distress freely intermingled. It took a second of struggling with the writhing figure before Ben could even establish who it was, his eventual realisation bringing both a sense of confusion and relief.

"Mercedes?"

"Ben?" she gasped in response as if suddenly waking from some sort of nightmare, her voice trembling with uncertainty as she blinked up into the familiar face and promptly broke down once more, flinging herself violently against his chest, "Ben! Oh, Ben! It's terrible…I – I – he's dead…"

"Dead?" came the bewildered reply, arms winding automatically around the shaking woman even as Ben struggled to make sense of the statement, "Who's dead? Mercedes? _Who's dead_?"

"Brian!" came the response, part yelled, part-sobbed.

"Brian! But…but how – ,"

It was a question that didn't require an answer as abruptly a figure shot from the other side of the barn at a run, impaired by a visible limp but still cutting across the ground as though pursued by Indians.

"Hey!"

Again Adam moved on instinct, almost like a dog responding to a bolting rabbit. He didn't need to ask who the man was, he didn't need to clarify his part in the proceedings; the picture just seemed to fall together, and where there was a suspicious death followed by a man fleeing despite overwhelming odds, there was usually good need for a chase.

"Adam!"

Blistering across the yard in hot pursuit, Adam quickly left Ben's combined shout of warning and concern behind, instead doubling back and taking a wide sweep around the far side of farmhouse. Cutting across he vaulted up onto the back porch in a single leap, watching as the fleeing figure emerged around the opposite side, head twisting desperately to check whether he was being followed but failing to see Adam coming from the side. Despite the obvious injury they were both running like for like which meant that the other man was running for his life, Adam could even hear the breaths tearing from his throat and could see the perspiration starting to bead across the other man's forehead as he continually – and desperately – glanced backwards.

Launching himself from the top step, Adam took to a semi-dive, piling down hard on the fleeing escapee and driving them both into the ground in a cloud of dust and a sharp yell of pain. Adam was back on his feet in a second, pinning his quarry down hard and riding the subsequent frantic attempts at escape, ducking the blows and feeling as the fight gradually left his opponent in favour of exhausted panting and verbal protest.

"I didn't do it!" he yelled between breaths, wincing visibly as Adam hauled him up onto his feet by the collar of his battered, mud-stained shirt,

"Didn't do what?" he snapped, fierce and unforgiving.

"I didn't kill him!"

"Kill _who_?"

"The guy!" came the hissed response turning into a yelp as Adam tightened his grip, "The guy in the barn! I swear I didn't touch him!"

"Who are you?"

"G – Gracie, Abel Gracie."

Although he'd expected as much, the answer still made Adam's expression darken, both the combination of the accused's initial crimes and his presence at the sudden chaos of the Gilder Ranch acting as fairly damning evidence.

"You're the man wanted for murder,"

Frantic head shaking followed, beads of sweat shaking left and right as Adam became aware for the first time of the heat radiating off his detainee in waves. Suddenly his short-lived fight seemed to make sense; whatever wound Abel Gracie was carrying, Adam guessed it had become infected. The man was going to need to see a doctor.

"Not this one – I – I swear!" Gracie pressed in sudden answer to the accusation, making Adam frown at the desperate sincerity he thought he detected within the tones. His grip however, didn't loosen.

"Why were you in the barn?"

"I spent the night. H – he let me."

"Brian?"

"I don't know his name!"

Instead of answering, Adam paused, the split second's doubt throwing up what Gracie obviously mistook to be a possible way out,

"Look feller – ," he began, getting no further as another more familiar voice rang out towards them, still laced with concern.

"Adam?"

Responding to his father's call as if being shaken from a deep reverie, Adam's expression hardened again and he turned on his heel briskly, hauling the injured convict behind him with a sudden hard yank,

"Come on."

Gracie didn't think he'd ever heard two words spoken with such contempt.

Ben was still standing outside the barn, his face about as grim as Adam could remember having seen it. On seeing his eldest son marching towards him towing their escapee behind, the expression softened slightly in relief only to harden again almost instantly as Mercedes let loose a renewed sob of despair from the confines of his reassuring embrace. Sharing a glance he gestured half-heartedly into the building through the open doors, prompting Adam to look, still keeping a tight hold of Gracie.

Brian Gilder was lying facedown on ground, unmoving, his jacket covered in a mixture of hay, dirt and blood. He'd obviously been beaten to death, even in the half-light Adam could tell that much, his body abandoned where it had fallen. Unconsciously his grip on Gracie tightened.

Sitting at the head of the body staring into space was Lowell Gilder, his face curiously expressionless. As Adam shifted somewhat awkwardly the youth looked up slowly, seemingly sensing the eldest Cartwright boy's eyes move in his direction. Instead of seeing sorrow however, something unreadable appeared to be playing across the redhead's face and suddenly Adam thought back to Gracie's earlier protests, fragments filtering down into his consciousness.

"_I didn't do it – _he_ let me."_

Lowell?

It was a terrible thought and no sooner had it flashed across his mind than Adam reproached himself for it. There may have been little love lost between Lowell and Brian Gilder – or Lowell and anyone for that matter – but to think the kid a murderer when a suspected killer had been running from the crime scene seemed unjust to say the least. Still, Adam couldn't help the nagging feeling beginning to take root within him. It was a feeling he knew well, and one he also knew might take some quelling. Glancing across to Gracie and trying to ignore the sounds of Mercedes Gilder's continued sobbing in his father's arms, Adam narrowed his eyes, trying to read the expression on the convict's face. Fear? Anger? Disbelief? It seemed to be a combination of all three, and focused entirely upon Lowell Gilder who merely stared back in impassive nonchalance.

"I didn't do it!" Gracie reaffirmed plaintively, his renewed proximity to the incident seemingly re-fuelling the strength of his conviction, "I didn't do it!"

"That's for a jury to decide now," Ben bit back from behind them, voice hard with a combination of grief and fury as he tried to keep down his own emotions.

As Adam continued to watch Lowell however he could have sworn a smirk darted fleetingly across the youth's face, briefly twitching the corners of the otherwise downwards turned mouth before vanishing as quickly as if it had never been conceived.

Adam blinked, his mind awash with sudden unease.

"_I didn't do it – _he_ let me."_

If the 'he' in question wasn't Brian, then there was only one other person it could be. The problem was, Adam couldn't be sure anyone would be willing to listen to his doubts.

….

**Chapter Four.**

Sheriff Roy Coffee was a man whom age and experience had conspired to render virtually unflappable. Irregardless of whether he was staring down an armed bank robber, a candy-stealing kid or a grizzled circuit judge, Roy applied the same tried and tested method of unassuming assertiveness and reasoning to them all, with noticeable results. Occasionally however - very occasionally - his calm exterior would slip and release a frisson of irritation or a short-temperedness otherwise kept hidden, and whenever this happened - almost without exception - it was due to the unwarranted, unwelcome or downright stubborn intervention of one, some or all of the Cartwrights. They were his gift and his curse all in one.

"Adam," he began now, slow and deliberate, his annoyance only tempered by his incredulity, "What you're saying doesn't make any sense. Gracie is wanted for murder in Elliott Point and I just got word he's wanted in connection with another murder in San Francisco. He escaped jail and you yourself caught him running from the scene of Brian Gilder's murder, and yet you're telling me you don't think he did it?"

Letting the words sink in Adam took a deep breath and leant in across the paper-strewn desk towards the curmudgeonly old Sheriff, who was clearly waiting for some sort of answer. The truth was that, when presented so plainly with the facts, it did sound crazy to doubt Gracie's involvement - perhaps more than crazy - but alongside that was the niggle, the gnawing feeling that somewhere, somehow in amongst all evidence, something just didn't add up, and try as he might Adam Cartwright couldn't ignore that.

"Why would he have stayed? If Gracie did kill Brian why did he wait until Pa and I showed up before running? Why wasn't he all ready gone?"

Sighing and throwing one hand into the air in an expression of cluelessness, Roy shrugged,

"Arrogance? Exhaustion? In a man like that who's to say why he did any of the things he did?"

Establishing timing around the murder had proved somewhat difficult, but, given the doctor's initial sketchy reports and then Mercedes and Lowell's fractured accounts, it seemed that Brian had been dead for a while before anyone else had found him - which apparently meant that Gracie had been sitting in the barn with his victim for some hours. To Adam that just didn't make sense, nor was it the only thing.

"What about the blood?"

"Blood?" Roy echoed in bafflement, expression matching his tone,

"Why wasn't there any blood on Gracie? On his clothes? On his hands? If he beat Brian Gilder as badly as you say he did then why is there no trace of it?"

Faced with both the conundrum and Adam's sheer determination, Roy faltered briefly. The question had bothered him also, the fact of the matter being that a death as violent as Brian Gilder's dictated a certain amount of...well, mess. The truth was that Abel Gracie should have been spattered with blood - only he wasn't, and he was still wearing the same clothes he'd had when he'd escaped Elliott Point so he certainly hadn't changed them. Still, as far as Roy Coffee was concerned it was but a minor blip in an otherwise seamless chain of evidence.

"I don't know," he began again, tone softening in a hint of understanding, "But Adam that man's a murderer - ,"

"Suspected murderer." Adam frowned instinctively, "He's not been found guilty yet."

"All right," Roy conceded, "But with the evidence they got against him, he's not very likely to go free. Now maybe some of it doesn't add up, but doesn't Mrs. Gilder's version of events make more sense to you than anything else you can think of?"

Adam paused. He'd been standing in the office with Roy and his father as Mercedes had made a shaken but otherwise pretty articulate explanation earlier in the day - Lowell glaring sullenly over her shoulder. As far as Mercedes had been concerned, Brian had gone out to the barn to check on one of the horses' late the night before just prior to turning in for the night. He'd come back a little on edge but refused to disclose why, reassuring his wife that she was merely fussing over nothing. The next morning when he had not joined them at the breakfast table they had eventually become concerned and gone looking, which was when they had found him - and Gracie - in the barn, and also when he and Ben had arrived on the scene.

"I suppose it does," Adam offered slowly in response, the hesitation making Roy cock his head towards the eldest Cartwright boy with interest,

"You don't sound sure,"

"I'm not,"

"You don't think Brian Gilder could have let an escaped convict sleep in his barn overnight?"

Adam sighed,

"No, I think Brian would have done exactly that with the intention of handing him over in the morning. _If_ he'd known Gracie was in there."

"If?" Roy blinked, picking up on the crucial word of the sentence. Adam gazed back at him passively, giving a firm nod, "You think Brian didn't know Gracie was in the barn? That Gracie jumped him?"

Turning to take a seat on the edge of Roy's desk, Adam glanced down, turning his hat over in his hands almost absently,

"That's where I'm not sure,"

Roy frowned,

"Well Adam, if not Gracie who exactly do _you_ think killed Brian?"

Adam didn't answer, didn't feel he could. Lowell's face was flashing through his mind relentlessly but it was a theory too outrageous to say - not even so much a theory as a feeling, and the law didn't convict men on feelings alone. Instead Adam shrugged, avoiding eye contact,

"I don't know."

"Well then," replied Roy, again turning his hands skywards, "There's not a whole lot I can do to put your mind at rest is there?"

"You can do one thing for me,"

"What's that?"

"Let me talk to Gracie."

Even before Adam had said it, Roy Coffee had known what the request would be and he'd known it because he knew Adam. By and large the Cartwright's all possessed similar traits; stubbornness featured high on that list, but so did loyalty, fairness, justice and determination. If something was bothering Adam, then the eldest Cartwright son was not going to give up until he had it either solved or settled in his own mind - there seemed little point in denying him the inevitable, and so Roy simply gestured towards the cells with a sigh.

"I don't know what good it's going to do mind..."

Hopping off the desk with a smile, Adam patted the Sheriff fondly on the shoulder,

"Thanks Roy."

Gracie was lying back on the bed, stretched out and looking pale and exhausted. His leg had been seen and dressed by the doctor - it was infected, as he had guessed - and his fever, once properly attended to, wouldn't be enough to keep him from standing trial. If he heard Adam approach then he did little to show it, instead waiting until his visitor spoke before even opening an eye, as if being caught had taken away some of the frantic desperation and replaced it with a certain cocky indifference.

"Are you feeling better?" Adam asked after a pause, managing to sound both concerned and contemptuously all at once. He hadn't forgot what the man before had been accused of - what Roy Coffee said he almost certainly did - but at the same time he wasn't about to let the man take the blame for a crime he didn't commit. If only that it meant Brian Gilder's real killer would go unpunished. Gracie responded with a dry snort of amusement,

"Better?" he repeated, glancing lazily around the cell before shrugging, "Depends what you call better."

"Look," crossing the distance between the office and the jail cell in three clean strides, Adam stopped to rest an elbow casually against the bars, "Let's dispense with the formalities shall we? You say you didn't murder Brian Gilder, and I'm inclined to believe you. Now how about you give me a good reason as to why that should be,"

Propping himself up on his elbows, Gracie blinked, the expression cautious but curious,

"You tell me mister."

"I wish I could," Adam responded, before looking up to meet the convict's gaze, "I'd like to prove you innocent if I can, but I'm going to need your help. Can you tell me anything about what happened? Now you already told me that Brian Gilder let you stay the night - ,"

"That the kid's name?" Gracie interrupted. Adam blinked,

"The kid? The dead man's name was Brian Gilder - ,"

"No, no not the old man, the kid."

"Lowell?" Adam asked, a little more keenly than he would have liked.

"That the redhead?" Gracie queried, frowning hard as he watched Adam nod. The affirmative seemed to clarify things, "He's the one. He's the one who let me stay in the barn, not the old man,"

"Lowell knew you were there?"

"He sure did," Gracie spat before flopping back down again with a chuckle, the act appearing misplaced given the circumstances, "Next thing I know there's screaming and I'm waking up next to a dead body – set up good I was – and then that kid, just staring at me."

As Gracie shut his eyes again, Adam let the silence continue, his own head full of thoughts and confusion. He believed more than ever that Gracie was innocent of Brian Gilder's murder, but the problem was that in order to unveil who he believed was the culprit, a recently widowed woman was going to end up even more heartbroken than she was all ready. It was a terrible situation to be in, and one that he knew was going to earn him little support - which was why he had to be certain before he said anything else. Sighing, he replaced his hat, pulling the brim down low across his eyes,

"I'll see what I can do."

A grunt was his only response, making him suddenly realise that even the man he was trying to redeem didn't care about his campaign, and meaning that for the moment at least, he was utterly alone.

….

**Chapter Five.**

By the time Ben arrived home it was already dark outside, the day having lapsed into the cool, quiet release of late evening, ushering away all the hours of bustle and activity that had come before it.

Inside the fire was already roaring heartily, Hoss and Joe seated around it in the middle of a game of cards, a collection of pennies, buttons and candies piled on the table both between and beside them.

Joe was grinning, chewing lazily on a wooden toothpick as he smirked at his older brother from over his hand - though whether bluffing or genuinely in luck Ben couldn't quite tell. Neither evidently could Hoss, or at least the uncertain frown on his face appeared not to.

Hearing the click of the door latch behind them, both looked up simultaneously, their expressions softening from the competition of the game to the warm greeting reserved only for the welcoming of family.

"Hi Pa,"

"Pa."

"Boys," Ben greeted in response, taking off his hat and casting around for the one missing face, "Adam upstairs?"

"Uh, no Pa," Hoss replied somewhat absently as the game commenced once more, Little Joe still smirking irritably, "He went into town a while back,"

"Into town?" Ben echoed, his voice raising in surprise, "What could he possibly want in town at this time of night?!"

Not looking up from the cards, Joe kept his tone neutral,

"I don't know, but he said he'd be back before supper."

"Before supp - ," Ben began before pausing to regard his younger sons with an appraising look. Apparently Adam's whereabouts didn't concerns his brothers half as much as it concerned Ben, which meant that either they knew more about why he'd gone into town at such an hour than they were letting on, or else it was one hell of a low-stakes poker games they were playing. He decided to go with the former option, "Is there something you two aren't telling me?"

Sharing a look of vague apprehension with Hoss, Little Joe half-turned towards him, shrugging in a gesture of nonchalance but his performance less than convincing,

"Like what Pa?"

Luckily for his sons however, Ben was spared answering by the sound of the front door once again opening, this time revealing the man in question, who paused briefly on seeing his father, perhaps sensing some of the tension. He chose to ignore it,

"Well, evening Pa," he began casually, taking off his hat and tossing it onto its usual peg, "We weren't sure we'd be seeing you tonight,"

Standing upright, hands on his hips and trying to hide the mild affront he felt, Ben regarded his eldest in return,

"I could say the same for you."

Only he couldn't, not really. Brush it off, disguise it and dismiss it as he did, the truth was that since Brian's death Ben had been spending a noticeable amount of time at the Gilder Ranch - a noticeable amount of time at the Gilder Ranch with Mercedes. Nor apparently had it gone unnoticed.

If Adam caught the dig however - and it wasn't very likely he hadn't - then he let it go unchallenged, simply smiling crookedly as he shrugged off his jacket. He had caught his father on the back foot and they both knew it. Hoss however didn't, the outermost fringes of his consciousness still deep in the midst of a poker-related button-ownership crisis as he finally threw down his cards with a sigh and made an attempt at easy conversation,

"How's Mrs. Gilder today Pa?"

Glancing across the room with sharp eyes, Ben watched as Adam turned to hang up his coat, something like a knowing look on his face. Ben didn't like it one bit,

"Fine son," he replied evenly, still keeping eyes on his eldest, "She's just fine. Mercy – Mercedes – _Mrs. Gilder _– ," he stumbled, momentarily loosing his composure and the slip only serving to annoy him further, "...is a strong woman despite how she may appear. I have every confidence that, given time and support, she'll come through this,"

"Anything we can do to help out at the ranch?" Hoss asked instead, voice thick with empathy, or else misery as he watched Little Joe rake his winnings inwards across the tabletop grinning widely,

"No thanks son," Ben smiled back warmly, consistently touched by the generosity of his middle child and the pride making him momentarily mellow, "That head foreman of theirs is a real dependable fellow, he's making my job a whole lot easier,"

Straightening up from over by the door, Adam cocked his head slightly, the words making him pause.

"And what exactly _is_ your job Pa?" he asked quietly, the question suddenly making the room fall silent as everybody turned to look. Over beside the fire, Hoss and Joe exchanged an uncomfortable glance knowing that the moment had finally come. Ever since Brian Gilder's death nearly four days ago, there had been unspoken tension in the house - most of it surrounding Adam, since Ben had been largely involving himself with supporting Mercedes and Lowell. They didn't know everything behind it, but they knew enough to know that Adam thought Abel Gracie innocent and that his trip into town had been to see the very 'dependable' foreman Ben had just been talking up. They also knew that any issue where Ben's loyalties and Adam's convictions met head-on would not be pretty. Nor did this promise to be, as Ben's hackles promptly rose and his voice hitched in irritation,

"Mercedes – _Mrs. Gilder _is an old friend, I'm helping her through the murder of her husband. Would you prefer I just abandon her to a ranch which she has no clue how to run and a business she has no idea how to sustain?"

Softening slightly, aware that his father was not the man he was trying to convict, Adam held up his hands up in a placating gesture, realising as he did that the strain of the previous days was beginning to dictate his mood.

"Of course not," he offered gently,

"Then what seems to be the problem?" Ben snapped back, not taking the proffered truce. In the following silence Adam took a long breath,

"Pa, doesn't anything about Brian's death strike you as...wrong?"

For a second Ben merely blinked, the question not what he had been expecting,

"Wrong?" he echoed, before appearing to think about it, "When is cold-blooded murder not wrong?"

"But that's just it," Adam responded, his tone softening even further as if he were addressing something delicate with a small child, and making Ben bristle once more on instinct, "What if it wasn't cold-blooded? What if there _was_ a reason?"

Ben shook his head, the conversation now utterly losing him,

"But why would Gracie have any reason to kill Brian? He didn't even know him – ,"

"Not Gracie, Pa," Adam interjected carefully, "Someone else,"

"Someone else? Adam, Roy has Gracie in the jailhouse – he's wanted in connection with three murders, _you_ caught him running from the barn – who else could possibly have killed Brian?"

It was an argument Adam was getting good at rebutting, but this time he went straight for the jugular,

"Someone who would stand to gain by his death,"

Instantly Ben's expression darkened, like a thundercloud passing low overhead and taking all the light with it.

"Son, what exactly are you getting at?"

Of his three children, Adam had always been the most astute, the quickest to pick up on his father's changing moods and expressions – not so much an instinct as a lifelong skill honed over the course of many years and shared experiences. It didn't fail him now and so instead he skirted the issue, trying to further his point,

"Pa, I spoke to Trent Wilson today – ,"

"The Gilder foreman? What could you possibly want to talk to him about?"

Adam blinked, his expression remaining unnervingly even despite the growing scale of the row,

"Lowell,"

"Lowell?!" Ben snapped back hotly, his understanding swinging between vague and nonexistent, "Well why in the world would you – ," It hit him like a thunderbolt, "No. Adam, _no_."

"Pa, listen – ,"

But he didn't get any further, Ben crossing the distance between them with one finger outstretched and looking so angry that Hoss shot to his feet in alarm,

"Now Pa – ," he started, before being cut off by another warning finger.

"Adam," Ben started instead, attentions fully focused on his eldest with not much room to spare elsewhere, "If you are saying what I think you are trying to say then you'd better stop right there, I don't want to hear it!" wheeling away as if in sudden disgust he paced over towards his desk, leaning down against it as if trying to get his emotions under control, "What you are suggesting – what you are accusing – ," again he stopped, the words unable to order themselves fast enough, "You're telling me you think Lowell capable of killing his _own father_?!"

"Oh, come on Pa!" Adam shot back, his temper more even than his father's but hotting up under the scrutiny, "You think I haven't thought about that? You think I'm doing this for my own sake?"

"Well then who's sake are you doing it for Adam? Mercedes? Lowell? _Brian_? Let me tell you something boy, I have spent the past four days with that family and I can assure you that Lowell Gilder is as upset as anyone right now!" turning away again with a shake of his head, Ben's voice dropped a little in defeat, a hint of what sounded like contempt creeping into it, "I thought I raised you better,"

It was shocking statement and no sooner had he said it than Ben regretted it. But his emotions were swirling and try as he might he couldn't take it back. Not now.

"You did raise me better Pa," Adam countered, hard but firm, "You raised me better than to condemn a man on circumstance, which is exactly what's happening to Abel Gracie – ,"

"Gracie murdered two girls!" Ben yelled, slamming his fist onto the desk and making Little Joe and Hoss both jump,

"So that means he killed Brian?"

"Yes!"

For a long while Adam and Ben simply stared at one another, the elder taking in the quiet determination of the younger and not liking what he saw there; if Adam wasn't right, then he certainly thought he was, and neither option was particularly comforting.

"I don't agree," he offered eventually.

"Well I don't care what you think," Ben fired back, angrier than he would have liked given how passive his son was being in response, "I will not have you spreading this – this_ lie_. You have doubts, you keep them to yourself do you understand me?!"

Everyone blinked. Usually when Ben spoke down to one of his sons, it was the younger, occasionally the middle child, but rarely, very, very rarely the eldest. Adam, for all intent and purpose was his better half, the one that thought, acted and spoke as he did, and the one he could rely on for support and rationale. Hearing them at such odds was as worrying for Hoss and Joe as it was for them. Adam however simply nodded, his eyes boring such a fierce hole into his father that Ben almost felt compelled to look away,

"I understand you Pa."

But he didn't sound happy about it.

"Good," Ben nodded back, feeling the tension cool although it was by no means resolved, "Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to go and freshen up before dinner."

The room watched him go in silence, waiting until he'd disappeared from view altogether before daring to speak.

"You all right Adam?" Joe asked breaking the silence and watching his older brother snort in dry amusement rather than form an answer. Stepping up beside him, Hoss clapped a comforting hand across his back,

"He's just upset is all," he offered placatingly, "You know how close he and Mrs. Gilder used to be, he's just worried about her."

Reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, Adam nodded, he knew that much.

"Then he should be worried about her living with a murderer,"

"Trent Wilson tell you what you wanted to know?" Joe asked instantly, picking up on the subtext,

"He confirmed what I all ready knew – Lowell and his father didn't get on,"

"So how does that help?" asked Hoss, taking a seat on the couch as Adam came to stand behind it. Time and experience had taught he and Little Joe both that when their eldest brother was in the midst of an ethically-based dilemma it was best to leave well alone, which by and large was what they did. This time however things were different. It wasn't so much that anybody in the house wanted to condemn Lowell Gilder, far from it, rather that each of the Cartwright boys had enough misgivings about the youth for Adam's hesitations to stir an inkling of suspicion in each of them. They were in no hurry to denounce the boy, but neither were they going to deny Adam a closer look – if only for peace of mind and the sake of their Pa. After all, when it came to straightening out messes, Adam was the unassailed master, as well perhaps he should have been, having had a lifetime's experience with the two of them.

"Because," Adam continued with emphasis, "Trent also told me why – Lowell was trying to leave,"

"Leave?" repeated Little Joe with a frown, watching Adam nod in response,

"Apparently Mercedes was trying to get Lowell an apprenticeship with her brother in New York, only Brian wouldn't let him go – wanted his son to stay and learn the family business."

Joe snorted,

"I can imagine how well that went down."

"Boy never was very hands-on," conceded Hoss in close support,

"Add that to capping his allowance and keeping such a tight rein on him…" Adam finished, tailing off as if the rest of sentence didn't need saying. It didn't, but Little Joe provided the rest anyway,

"Sounds like a motive to me,"

"Only Pa's right," Adam continued in even tones, "It's not enough, at least not to accuse the boy of murdering his father."

"You think he did it though?" Joe asked, frowning as the conversation seemed to take another turn. Pausing for a moment, Adam briefly considered the question before taking a deep breath,

"I think that Gracie's innocent yes, and I think that Lowell Gilder is the next most likely suspect – but it's still not enough."

"So what're you going to do?" Hoss asked none the wiser, watching as Adam suddenly smiled ruefully, the expression roguish yet regretful as he looked up to greet his younger brother's gaze. Apparently he was resigned to his fate.

"I guess I'm just going to have to dig a little deeper. A lot deeper."

….

**Chapter Six. **

The next morning Ben set off early for the Gilder Ranch, the move a rebuttal of his eldest son's veiled accusations as well as a stubborn declaration of his own – he had nothing to be ashamed of in his conduct with Mercedes, after all he was simply a man providing help to an old friend in her time of need, and he wasn't about to let petty jealousies or fool ideas change the way he felt on the matter. Which was what he told himself they were at least. The truth was however, that none of those descriptions accurately described emotions that Adam was prone too; tenacity, defiance and obstinacy almost certainly, but never jealousy, never foolishness and never pettiness – he just didn't have it in him. Which meant that somewhere in amongst the theory that Ben had, and continued, to find so repulsive, was an element of plausibility, a hint of possibility and a potential reality. The problem was he just couldn't believe it. It wasn't that Ben was particularly fond of Lowell, far from it, he found the boy sullen and demanding – although it didn't stop Mercedes indulging him with a leniency that bordered on the oblivious – but a distinct lack of social skills didn't a murderer make. Lowell Gilder kill his _own_ _father_? Impossible. It simply wasn't possible.

Drawing into the yard of the Gilder Ranch at a steady lollop, Ben took in the few pleasantries thrown out to him by the ranch-hands with nodded greetings of his own, briefly stifling his unease at the intimacy of the casual exchanges as he swung down beside the hitching post. Just when had he become so familiar-a-sight outside the little farmhouse anyway?

"Evening Pa. We weren't sure we'd be seeing you tonight."

Evidently Adam had read the signs before he had and the knowledge didn't make the Cartwright patriarch any happier.

"Ben?" It was a gentle voice that pulled him out of his sudden irritation, familiar and expressive despite its single syllable enquiry. Mercedes Gilder was standing on the porch before him, a hand wrapped lazily around one of the little white-painted posts that flanked the steps. She was regarding him with something like curiosity, a warm smile forming underneath it as she watched him wage the silent argument that had stopped him from noticing her.

"Mercedes,"

It was an instant response, as was the accompanying smile and this time none of his eldest child's remembered insinuations could offset the balance.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she teased gently, "Is everything all right?"

"Of course," came the firm, almost deliberately off-hand reply as Ben swept off his hat and climbed the steps to draw level with her, "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

She stared back at him defiantly,

"You could, but the answer would still be the same. I'm fine Ben."

Mercedes Gilder had never been short of spirit, never lacking in willpower and determination. It was one of the qualities in her that Ben loved best, had always loved, right back before Marie, back when she had been pretty little Mercy Keegan, a firebrand with blonde hair and captivating eyes.

They'd been young of course, both of them, although he'd already had a growing empire and two young sons to care for. For a while their union had seemed all but written in the stars until fate had interjected with a fellow blonde from New Orleans and Mercy Keegan had been forced to cast off passion in exchange for security of the type only a man of Brian Gilder's income could reasonably provide. As the years had passed on by, both had grown into their respective worlds – Ben as a single father, Mercedes as a wife and mother – but an undeniable spark had remained, a frisson of attraction that bounced between them adding a credence to Adam's caustic remarks that Ben could barely deny and at times wasn't sure he wanted to,

"And what exactly is your job Pa?"

"_Mrs. Gilder is an old friend, I'm helping her through the murder of her husband."_

But Ben was by no means a fool. He could play the injured party to his children as much as he liked and try to convince himself that they all bought it, but inside there was a tremor of apprehension which was harder to quell. He liked seeing Mercedes – had come to enjoy spending his time with her – and while it was far too early to comprehend anything other than friendly support, Ben was starting to get that feeling that came with temptation, a feeling he had felt several times before and knew well-enough to diagnose; the first feeble flickerings of love. He fought them down fiercely, angry with Adam not for questioning his motives, but rather for seeing through them, not liking the light by which the truth cast him. After all, what kind of a man lusted over the wife of a friend no less than a week after he'd been murdered? The answer was no man at all.

Realizing the silence between them had been building however, Ben smiled again, trying to keep his tone light,

"Of course you are," it was as he stood looking at her however that Ben became aware for the first time of something that had before gone unnoticed – Mercedes' outfit, or rather what seemed to have been dispensed with. For some reason Mercedes Gilder was no longer wearing black. It was a change that caught Ben a little by surprise, "That's a…very fetching dress – ," he began with a vague frown, watching as her face lit up in response, her hands moving to the folds in an attempt to spread it out and showcase it more fully,

"Thank you Ben. It's new."

"New?"

"Yes…" belatedly she registered the tone, looking up and catching some of the unease she saw reflected back at her, "You – ," she faltered slightly, "You think it's too soon?"

Ben shifted awkwardly,

"Well – ,"

Suddenly Mercedes seemed to crumple before him, tears springing into her eyes,

"Oh I knew it was!" she gasped in distress, taking several steps back to sink into a chair hidden under the shade of the porch, "What must you think of me?!"

"Now Mercy – ," Ben soothed quickly, crossing the distance between them to sink into a crouch and take up one of her hands gently. She continued regardless,

"You know me Ben, I've never been one to wallow in grief! I was just so fed-up of black, so fed-up of looking down at myself and being reminded that I'd never be a wife again! That Brian – ,"

It was a conversation of fractured half-sentences, but Mercedes' distress conveyed just about everything she seemed to want to say and more, her tears more effective than if she'd just recited every last thought flowing through her head with stage-worthy articulation.

"Don't distress yourself ," Ben offered gently, guilt twisting him viciously inside, "I know exactly how you feel – it's not easy to lose someone you love so much, we all struggle."

Slowly Mercedes stopped crying, her watery eyes finding out Ben's under rapidly fluttering lashes, still wet with grief.

"Oh Ben," she smiled suddenly, the expression wobbling slightly as she moved her hand up, placing her palm softly against his cheek, "Dear Ben. You always did know what to say."

Catching the hand in his, Ben lowered it but continued to hold firm.

"To you I did."

Mercedes smiled again,

"We were quite a pair."

"We were," as the intimacy rose again, Mercedes suddenly broke away, standing once more and pacing the porch to rest against the railings, her expression troubled. Ben noted it immediately, brow furrowing in instant concern, "What's wrong?"

Her response was firm again, the famous Mercedes Gilder poise returning as quickly as it had fled,

"I'm going to sell the ranch," she told him simply, half-turning as he rose to his feet, clearly struggling with the sentiments.

"You're leaving?"

Despite his proximity her gaze would not quite meet his,

"We're going to join my brother in New York. He has work for Lowell, he'll take care of us."

Pausing a little, letting his tongue wet his suddenly dry lips, Ben paused to turn his hat over in his hands, unknowing mimicking his eldest son's same idle habit and desperately trying to find the words he felt needed saying. They didn't come.

"I wish you would reconsider," he offered eventually in the silence. Mercedes' response was more hesitant.

"Now that Brian is gone, what do I have to stay for?" she asked quietly, big blue eyes darting up towards him and then back down to the hands clasped in front of her. Ben reached over, taking one up in his own,

"You have friends,"

She faltered momentarily,

"Good friends I know, but it's not enough. I'm not a country girl, I never was – you know that. Besides, I can't run a ranch Ben, I don't know how!"

"I'll help you,"

She smiled at him fondly,

"I know you would. But it was never my dream, all this – ," she spread her arms wide to take in their surroundings, "It was Brian's. I'm too young and too stubborn to be in mourning for the rest of my life Ben, just somebody's poor a widow. I _need _more."

"Is there nothing I can say?"

"I don't know Ben."

As the silence renewed between them however, each lost in their own confused thoughts, Ben suddenly reached out for Mercedes' other hand, not knowing his own feelings but knowing the thought of her leaving so hot on the heels of the tragedy they had already born was simply too much for him. His response was as heartfelt as it was simple.

"Stay."

It was all she needed to hear.

….

**Chapter Seven.**

Sometimes Adam could go weeks without leaving the Ponderosa, simply spending his time travelling its broad spread from one task to the next, mending, overseeing or herding as required and seeing very few people other than his immediate family, their motley crew of assorted ranch hands and their terse but dependable Chinese cook. Other times he could find himself in and out of Virginia City nearly every day, collecting the mail, supplies, or frequently one of his younger brothers – usually either from the saloon or the doctor's. Today however – and perhaps thankfully – he was collecting the post.

It was he who saw Lowell Gilder first, clapping eyes on the familiar bushy crop of red hair in the centre of an enthusiastic crowd seemingly holding court at the bar of the saloon, each man with a drink in his hand and a face turned inwards toward the teenaged centre of attention. Frowning quizzically and turning to lean a casual elbow against the bar, Adam watched the bartender draw in close, wiping a dirty rag around the inside of a glass and catching the vague gesture as his latest patron nodded a confused head in the direction of the impromptu gathering,

"What's going on?"

Following his gaze as if seeing the situation for the first time the bartender snorted wryly before pausing to flick the dishcloth over his shoulder and heave a weary-sounding sigh,

"Young Lowell Gilder," he offered by way of explanation, the unnecessary identification helping none. Adam blinked,

"What about him?"

"He's buying every man that comes through the doors a drink and more for anyone that asks."

Adam turned back, the frown he'd been wearing growing to consume his entire expression as he grappled with the facts.

"He's what?"

The bartender nodded once more,

"Boy's been throwing money around all morning, and not just here either. The way I heard it, the kid's been buying things up left, right and centre. He's the talk of the town."

Adam quirked an eyebrow,

"I bet he is…a little young to be in here though isn't he?"

The look the bartender gave him in return was half guilt-ridden, half indignation,

"Didn't stop Little Joe if I remember right. Besides, I'm running a business, if the kid wants to drink away his inheritance in my little establishment who am I to deny him?"

Adam threw his eyes skywards,

"You're a real entrepreneur Sam,"

If the bartender noted the heavy sarcasm however, he chose not to respond to it.

"Someone's got to be…and it certainly ain't Lowell Gilder."

Somewhere behind them there was a loud burst of laughter followed by the sound of a glass shattering on the floor – signalling that those partaking in the sudden drinking session were starting to turn from mildly inebriated to almost completely intoxicated – and with a long-suffering sigh Sam rolled his eyes and set off to confront the culprit, muttering as he went. It was as he glanced over at the crowd however that Adam caught Gilder's eye for the first time, the boy's previously self-satisfied, seemingly childlike grin instantly devolving into something snide and altogether more sinister.

"Well, well, if it isn't Adam Cartwright."

It was hardly a warm welcome, nor was Adam's response.

"Lowell," the kid was drunk, if not fully then getting there at least. His eyes were glassy, shining underneath low-hung lids and reflecting the obvious contempt he felt towards Adam – if not life in general – and his words were mildly slower than usual, punctuated by the beginnings of a subtle slur. He was obviously trying to pretend he was still sober, as Adam could tell from having watched his younger brothers attempting to hide drinking sessions from their father without success, but while Hoss and Joe were giddy, giggly drunks, Lowell Gilder seemed to be getting meaner. Smiling a little, Adam turned away lazily, his voice the essence of nonchalance as replied in patronizing tones, "Think you've had enough now boy?"

He barely needed to see the responding bristle to know it had happened.

"I ain't no one's _boy_," he spat back, "I'm a man now – and I got my own ranch to prove it."

Adam wasn't much bothered by the false bravado.

"Man or not, you keep spending that money the way you're spending it and you'll end up with nothing."

"You're not my father Adam," came the reply, so low and dangerous that it registered under the consciousness of the drunkards cheerfully grouped around them, "I don't answer to anyone any more."

Adam nodded mildly,

"So I see."

"But I'll buy you a drink," the boy offered suddenly in the pause, not so much keen to make amends as to solidify his maturity with the first peace-offering, insincere though they both knew it was. Standing suddenly however, Adam instead turned for the door, dipping the brim of his hat in parting as he turned and gazed back hard,

"Maybe when you learn to hold your liquor better."

As far as he was concerned that should have been the end of it, the clattering feet on the boardwalk behind him however told him that Lowell Gilder had other ideas.

"Cartwright," came the hiss as the redhead came pounding unsteadily towards him, watching with growing rage as Adam merely continued to unhitch his horse, seemingly only vague interested in continuing the dialogue, "You ain't the only one around here able to flaunt his wealth you know, me and Ma, we're rich now too – we're just like you – ,"

Adam bristled instinctively,

"You are nothing like me,"

Sensing he'd hit a nerve however, Lowell smirked and continued,

"I reckon we're more similar than you think."

"Then you 'reckon' wrong," Adam countered evenly, "We might both use our hands to get what we want, but I use mine to work, not to lie."

It was as close as he was going to come to saying it outright, but the obscurity of the words seemed to unsettle Lowell all the same, his sudden awkwardness seeming all the more damning.

"Who's lying?" he shot back fiercely.

"You tell me kid," the moniker only succeeded in further drawing Lowell's ire, although, credit to him, he managed to rein it in for the first time Adam could remember seeing. Evidently he'd thought better of getting into an all-out brawl with one of the Cartwright boys. Smart move. Climbing up onto his horse Adam allowed a sigh to creep into his tone as he wheeled the chestnut in the direction of the road out of town, "Go home Lowell, look after your mother,"

"Thought your Pa was doing that for me," again Adam bristled, gritting his teeth against his own frustration. Damn the kid was good – too good, nor apparently was he done, "But I'll tell you what brother – ," if Adam could've taken a swing at him he would've done, "I won't say anything about this little conversation – no point in upsetting him, and I'll do you another favour as well – ,"

Adam snorted, his response dry,

"I'd hate for you to inconvenience yourself,"

Lowell ignored him,

"I'll offer you double for it."

"For what?" Adam blinked, feeling a little lost as the conversation turned once more. Lowell stared back at him impassively, shoulders moving into a shrug as if the answer was obvious,

"That fancy gun of yours."

As understanding flooded him, Adam shook his head, suddenly wondering if the boy's entire animosity towards him came courtesy of a rare pistol and the fact that it had been sold before he'd been able to unlock his inheritance. Well, he supposed, stranger things had happened, not that it was going to change the outcome. His answer was dismissive,

"Sorry kid,"

"Then name your price – money's no object anymore."

"The gun's not for sale."

In the face of his casual defiance, Lowell Gilder responded only with a look that spoke of hatred. Such loathing sparkled in the eyes that even Adam almost shifted awkwardly under the gaze, Gilder's mood swings and irascible temperament so violent and unpredictable that at times the youth seemed more animal than man. How could someone so young seem to harbour such ill will?

"You'll regret this Cartwright," he spat, venom dripping from each word.

Adam regarded him calmly, repeating his earlier sentiments in the hopes they would eventually come good as he spurred his horse into a trot and promptly ended their unnerving exchange,

"I told you Lowell, go home,"

Apparently however, the boy wasn't done, his bellow echoing down the street at Adam's fast-disappearing form.

"You'll regret saying no to me!"

Yep, that Lowell Gilder was a real nice kid.

….

**Chapter Eight.**

There'd been a big turnout from Elliott Point at the trial of Abel Gracie, including the parents of the two girls he'd stood accused – and subsequently been found guilty – of murdering, and the wife and brother of the San Franciscan man also attributed to his hit-list.

Roy Coffee had been right, the verdict having been all but decided in the first ten minutes of the trial alone, the evidence pointing almost irrefutably at Gracie's culpability, and his subsequent lack of remorse – or for that matter any overriding emotion – doing little to sway the jury in his favour. Instead he sat impassive at the table before the judge, absently examining his fingernails and occasionally glancing up as if trying to gage how much longer the formalities were going to be drawn out. He didn't even blink as the charges were read out, only smiling and shaking his head at the mention of Brian's name before casting of look of rueful admiration in the Gilder's direction. It was a move that incensed Ben, his grip tightening on Mercedes' hand several times before he was compelled to leave his seat altogether and have a word with Roy. It didn't happen again after that.

To Adam however, the look spoke volumes. Brian Gilder's name was the only one to which Gracie clearly reacted, and the only one on which he had remained adamant about his innocence, the others he seemed to take as accepted fact, something of which he was neither proud nor remorseful of, merely indifferent. To this end he refused to speak on his own behalf, or answer any of the questions put to him, nearly halving the usual time such trials took as a result and speeding up the inevitability of his own conviction and corresponding death sentence in the process.

Elliott Point's deputy sheriff stayed in Virginia City right up to the day of the hanging, almost as if wanting to see the job right through despite Roy Coffee's repeated assurances it would be. Bill Wicklow was a round man, a hint of Irish brogue creeping into a thick and deliberately accentuated American drawl that was almost as striking as his barrel-shaped chest. Quite frankly neither Roy Coffee nor the people of Virginia City could quite understand his ever having been promoted to the post of deputy in the first place – not in his physical condition anyway – but then what they didn't get to see was the professionalism he wore behind the doors of the jail; the game-face, the passionate hatred of lawlessness and the overwhelming sense of duty the station instilled within him. Unfortunately for Adam however, he got to see all three.

"Sheriff Coffee!"

Entering the jail through the mob of eager onlookers, Adam had not expected to be greeted by a rifle to the stomach, the metal tip jabbing clearly and firmly into his midriff as Wicklow – having placed himself on sentry duty – stopped him where he stood, a look of mistrust flashing through his features as he called on the elder sheriff's local knowledge and expertise. Ambling over from the desk it took less than a second for Coffee to notice both the eldest Cartwright boy and the hands held upwards in submission.

"Morning Adam," he greeted off-hand before turning back to glance at the papers he'd been carrying in his hands, before making a 'tutting' noise and throwing them back amongst the paperwork. Sensing the threat had passed Bill Wicklow lowered the rifle once more, moving quickly to bolt the office doors as Adam stepped in, more than a little pleased to see his old friend,

"Bad news?" he asked, sweeping off his hat and gesturing in amusement to the discarded papers. Roy groaned and waved a hand in airy annoyance,

"Just more rules and regulations. I swear it's getting harder and harder to uphold the laws these days, 'do this, don't do that' – it's gonna come a point when I'll be afraid to arrest someone case I'm going against the official guidelines and breaking the law myself!"

Smiling wider Adam chuckled, watching from the corner of his eye as Wicklow moved around to the other side of the desk, frowning in confusion at Roy's easy manner with the newcomer, still obviously not totally convinced. Either by fortitude or design, Roy ignored him.

"What can I do for you Adam?"

"I'd like to see Gracie again,"

He felt Wicklow stiffen instantly, a frown drawing across his face like a curtain of suspicion,

"The prisoner is off-limits," he replied curtly before catching Roy Coffee's sharp glare and dropping his gaze a little. It wasn't that Roy was any more thrilled with Adam's request than the Elliott Point man was, rather that he didn't appreciate the irritatingly little deputy dictating to him in his own jail. His anger shifting sideways instead of forwards therefore, his own response was milder and lacking in severity,

"Adam, Gracie's due to be hanged in half an hour. He had his opportunity to speak at the trial and he didn't, what makes you think he'll talk to you?"

"I'm not certain he will,"

Accordingly Sheriff Coffee narrowed his eyes, observing the man he had known since boyhood with a fiercely appraising stare. He knew when there was more to a situation going on, he also knew enough about it to guess,

"You still don't think he did it, huh?" the older man offered eventually, the realisation more statement than question, a combined look of exasperation and wonder playing across his face. Wicklow was less enamoured by the claim,

"Don't think he did it?!" he spluttered in the background, tone all amazement, "He's been found guilty boy! He did it all right, and he's gonna hang to prove it."

This time it was Adam who ignored him,

"I just want to make sure Roy. This is my last chance to do that."

Roy Coffee had known Adam a long time, had known all the Cartwright's a long time, but if there was one thing he knew about them it was that they never acted on anything less than deeply felt convictions. He didn't agree with Adam, or understand the younger man's concerns but neither did he doubt the sentiments or the sense of duty he knew drove them.

"Well, if it's gonna put your mind at rest…"

Judging by the grunt that accompanied the assent, Bill Wicklow didn't agree.

Abel Gracie was sitting in much the same fashion Adam had seen him before, only this time – if possible – he seemed even less concerned by his imminent fate, though whether through bravado or genuine psychosis Adam couldn't quite tell. For a moment he wasn't sure that Gracie was even awake so profound was the silence, but then suddenly, almost startlingly, he was speaking, seemingly aware of the identity of his visitor before even being told,

"Looks like I'm going to go down with four kills to my name after all," he started off-hand, eyes hidden beneath the crook of his elbow as he laid a lazy arm across his face to block out the mid-morning light streaming in through the bars, beating Adam straight to the subject in the process.

Adam's expression remained hard,

"Why didn't you tell them you were innocent?"

Gracie seemed surprised by the question, his arm momentarily lifting away from his face to shoot his visitor a curious look,

"Because I wasn't."

"You didn't kill Brian Gilder,"

The arm fell back into place again,

"No."

"So why didn't you say that?"

"To what end?" came the reply, accompanied by a noncommittal shrug, "No one would have believed me – a man who killed three people is never going to be cleared of another whether he committed it or not."

Adam frowned,

"So you're just going to let the real killer go free?"

Another shrug,

"Why not?"

"Because he's using your name to cover his own crimes!" Adam insisted, feeling his voice beginning to creep up as his temper heated in close accompaniment, "Doesn't that bother you at all?"

"In half an hour it's not going to be my problem."

"It'll still be mine."

"Then you're welcome to it," Gracie sighed, suddenly moving to sit upright against the wall, rubbing hands through his hair before peering through the bars at the strangely determined man in front of him. Abruptly the situation struck him as funny, and he chuckled once, the sound hollow as he shook his head, "But I warn you, they're good."

Adam blinked,

"Who?"

"The boy and his ma," Gracie replied casually, not noticing as Adam stiffened in sudden alarm.

"What do you mean the boy and his _ma_?" he repeated carefully, "What does Mrs. Gilder have to do with this?"

Gracie frowned,

"Well she knew I was there,"

Adam could barely process the facts, his confusion compounding the sense of urgency he suddenly felt,

"Mrs. Gilder? Mrs. Gilder knew?"

"Well sure," Gracie replied with another patented shrug of indifference, "The boy went and got her when he first found me. She told me to clear out in the morning or else she'd tell her husband,"

"Are you sure?"

"Why would I lie?"

And why would he? He certainly hadn't up until that point, nor did he have any reason to. But still Adam couldn't quite handle what he was hearing – Mercedes Gilder _and_ Lowell? Was that even possible? He certainly couldn't see it, besides, why would she kill her own husband?

"Me and Ma, we're rich now too…"

Lowell Gilder's words rang in his ears, the noise so loud that he could have sworn Gracie would hear them himself. Mercedes Gilder had always been a woman of expensive tastes, her son not much further behind her and both of them thwarted by Brian's constant economical prudence. Then there was Lowell, everybody knew how close mother and son were, which meant that Brian's refusal to let his son leave may have cut his wife as much as his only child. Besides that it was Mercedes who had technically discovered her husband's body first, the scream both alerting them and – if he was to be believed – waking Gracie at the same time, which meant that either she had genuinely just found Brian, or else that she knew he was there – had _put_ him there? She and Lowell both? Suddenly he didn't know what to think.

"Adam," Roy's voice interjected behind him, oblivious to the whirling turmoil, "It's nearly time now. I think you'd better go wait outside with everyone else."

Nodding mutely Adam turned to leave, sharing one last look with the prisoner before him, still seeming unbothered by his fate, but eyes boring into his own as if burning to words onto his soul. Adam wasn't sure he believed the man, but at the same time there wasn't a single part that doubted him. The two just wouldn't meet.

The turn-out for the hanging was almost as large as the turn-out for the trial itself, people's willingness to watch another man choke to death surprising and disturbing Adam as much as it always did, his continued presence serving only as a duty he felt towards both Brian and Gracie, their close but dissimilar deaths all linked to the same complex arc of confusion and doubt he felt him caught up in. He owed it to them both.

His brothers found him in amongst the crowd moments before Gracie was lead out to a chorus of jeers and boos. Neither seemed particularly pleased to be there, Adam knowing that they detested public hangings as much as he did, but there was a vicious sense of community present, almost as if every last citizen of Virginia City were expected to attend – some sort of shared solidarity, a civic duty. Taking off his hat, Little Joe elbowed Adam gently in the ribs,

"Pa's here with the Gilders," he hissed quietly, nodding across to the other side of the crowd, standing in a horseshoe around the freshly erected gallows. Mercedes and Lowell were front and centre, Mercedes' gloved hands wrapped tightly around Ben's. To all intent and purpose she looked like any other grieving widow, dabbing periodically at her eyes with a laced handkerchief and accepting the kindly words of her neighbours and friends who carried their grievances around on her behalf.

Adam continued to watch her as Gracie was led up the steps and the rope fitted around his neck to the monotonous drone of the required Biblical readings and the final chance at repentance. Gracie didn't take it and as the trapdoor swung open with a violent crash, all the Cartwright men lowered their heads away from the gruesome spectacle – all the men except Adam.

From the corner of one eye he could see Gracie swinging, but he pushed it aside in careful observation of Mercedes Gilder, instantly glad he had done so.

She was smiling.

Standing upright, she watched the display without a hint of repulsion, her eyes following the swaying corpse with a smirk, self-satisfied and confident. Feeling eyes on her she abruptly swung her gaze across the crowd, picking out Adam with a swiftness that almost startled him. Nor did she look away, matching him blink for unforgiving blink.

But beside her throughout stood Ben, attention fully on the unpleasant matter at hand; his loyalty unwavering and unquestioning.

The truth was going to break his heart in two.

….

**Chapter Nine.**

"I saw Lowell in Virginia City the other day."

It was a simple enough sentence that started the fallout, Adam's tone light and seemingly neutral across the breakfast table where his father and brothers sat eating. To an outsider it would have seemed like any other mealtime, but then an outsider wouldn't have known the difference. The truth was that since Gracie's hanging the atmosphere at the Ponderosa had been strangely tense, almost as if each member of the Cartwright family had been waiting for an end that hadn't come. Rather than closing the whole episode as it had been designed to, Gracie's death seemed actually to have intensified it.

Hearing the name with a spark of instinctive suspicion, Ben's eyes quickly shifted towards his eldest son, taking in the passive expression and not for the first time envying the effortless yet disarming poker face.

"Oh?" he replied mildly, clearing his throat a little and watching as Joe and Hoss shared a similar look of baffled uncertainty. Apparently nobody quite knew where Adam was headed, "And what was he doing there?"

"Not running the ranch that's for sure,"

"Meaning?"

Watching with a vague frown as Adam calmly continued to eat his breakfast, Ben couldn't keep the hitch of annoyance that crept into his tone, only just holding it in check,

"Meaning he was spending more money in one morning than we do in a month,"

The surprise momentarily tempered the irritation,

"He was what?"

"When I got there he was in the process of buying every man in town a drink,"

"Hey," Little Joe broke in suddenly, his tone jovial as he dug his older brother in the ribs, "Pity me and Hoss didn't ride in with you, we could have done with some of his generosity isn't that right?"

"Joseph!" snapped Ben suddenly, the single-word shout plunging everybody else into abrupt silence. Clearly their father was having some trouble with the facts, turning again to Adam, his voice low and deliberate, "I want you to tell me everything,"

He was met with an off-hand shrug,

"There's not a lot to tell Pa, I merely heard that Lowell had been…" a hand wave followed as he searched for a fitting description, "…spending beyond his means – ,"

"You don't have any proof?" Ben intersected quickly,

"Oh I've got proof all right," came the rejoinder, predictable in its certainty and perhaps the one thing that Ben shouldn't have doubted, after all, Adam wasn't usually one for idle accusation – however much Ben wanted to believe otherwise, "I checked myself."

Ben nodded slowly, eyes shutting briefly in a flicker of dread,

"How much did he spend?"

Adam paused, exchanging a quick look with his brothers before continuing, the hesitance to his usually confident tone making Ben's apprehension double,

"Two, maybe three thousand."

"In one morning?!" came the bellowed response, startling everyone with its sudden reappearance. Little Joe shook his head,

"_Three thousand_!" he breathed, before snorting in disbelief, "I didn't know you _could_ spend that much in Virginia City!"

For once he went unnoticed, watching as Adam stared at him and Hoss shook his head before attempting to turn his attentions back to his breakfast plate once more. The last thing his older brother's wanted or needed was their youngest taking their father's ire instead of the real culprit. Beside them however, Ben suddenly let out a low groan, shaking his head from side to side as he fixated on some imaginary point on the far wall.

"I was afraid this would happen."

It was a sentence that caught everyone's attention; none more so than Adam.

"What do you mean Pa?"

Briefly, Ben faltered,

"Oh, it's probably nothing, it's just – when I paid a visit to the Gilder Ranch the other morning, Mercedes was wearing a new dress. It seemed she had been shopping for a new wardrobe."

"But Pa – ," Hoss began, stopping awkwardly as he realised he'd spoken out loud and the rest of his protest coming out almost apologetically, "Poor Mr. Gilder ain't even been dead more'n a week,"

Ben nodded tiredly in response,

"I know Hoss, I know. Mercedes and Lowell just – don't have much sense when it comes to money is all, what with Brian having taken care of the finances for so long."

Clearing his throat a little, Adam shifted forward in his chair, breakfast all but forgotten as he fixed his father with a firm yet pacifying expression,

"Pa," he began gently, watching as the older man turned his attentions towards him, "Did you know about the problems between Brian and Lowell?"

"Problems?" it wasn't as harsh a reply as he'd been expecting, but it was sharp enough, "What kind of problems?"

"Lowell wanted to leave – he took a job in New York with his Uncle, only Brian refused to let him go,"

"New York?" Ben frowned, his conversation with Mercedes ringing in his ears.

"_We're going to join my brother in New York. He has work for Lowell, he'll take care of us."_

He'd mentioned in passing that Mercedes had made mentioning of selling the ranch , the reasons apparently all ready clear to Adam, who nodded carefully beside him,

"Apparently it caused quite a lot of resentment."

Ben blinked slowly, seeming almost dazed as he tried to piece the new information together, weaving the threads into a growing tapestry of conflicting emotions and facts. Suddenly he felt more than tired, wasn't it enough that he'd lost a friend? Did he have to cope with this uncertainty too?

"Who told you this?"

"The Gilder's foreman," Adam replied taking a deep breath, preparing himself for the pinnacle of his case and the storm he knew would follow, "I talked to Gracie before the hanging too,"

At once the atmosphere around the table changed, the palpable irritation switching instantly to something quieter and potentially much more dangerous.

"_Gracie_?" hissed Ben in tones of mixed outrage and disbelief, his anger only held in check by his confusion. Adam continued regardless, hoping that, if he could say his piece before his father's fury exploded wholesale then maybe, just maybe it would strike a chord.

"I wanted to be sure – ,"

"Sure about _what_?!" Ben interrupted hotly, "Adam, that man murdered two young girls, he killed two men, what could you possibly want to talk to him about?!"

"But that's just it Pa – _why_? Why didn't he confess to killing Brian? Why was it the _one_ charge that he denied? Why not deny all of them, why only one, why _that_ one?"

"I don't know!" again Ben was shouting, this time without hope of the mood abating, "I don't _want_ to know – I will _not_ take the word of a convicted murderer over that of someone I have known for twenty years, I simply won't!"

"But Pa – ,"

"Adam I asked you before and now I am telling you – I am _warning_ you not to say anything else on the subject! You put this…this nonsense out of your head once and for all!"

Unfortunately for all of them however, Adam was long past the age when a simple threat from his father would have ended a conversation dead. He was a man, a man with convictions and he wasn't going to let them lie, as much for his father's sake as anyone. He deserved to know the truth – whatever that was – they all did.

"And what if it's not nonsense Pa? What if it's the truth?"

"Well of course it's not!"

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know Mercedes Gilder and I know her son!"

Adam sighed angrily, the move more to take control of his own building rage than signal his insolence, although it seemed that way to Ben.

"You only _think_ you know them – ,"

"I know Mercedes Gilder because I am in love with her!" Abruptly the conversation stalled, everyone falling into shocked silence around the table, and the wind even dropping from Adam's sails as they all took in the revelation with varying levels of shock. Ben used the moment to continue, tone quieter but still sharp as he regarded his eldest son, "And when the time is right, I may even think about asking her to be my wife,"

"Pa – ," Adam sounded shell-shocked, shaken even and for a second the single imploring syllable made Ben's resolve crumble. But only for a second, too briefly to be seen, "Pa, you can't be serious."

"I am serious Adam, and so I want no more talk of Abel Gracie in this household, do you understand me?" he didn't get his answer, but the rueful silence served just as well, although the combined and matching expressions of his sons did little to give any sense of victory. Instead Ben stood suddenly from the table, throwing his napkin down beside his empty plate and taking in his children with a wide and authoritative gaze, "Now, if you'll excuse me I have a meeting with Huggins about the lumber contracts. I trust everyone else knows what they are supposed to be doing today?"

"Yes Pa," Hoss supplied quickly, registering his father's need for an answer. He nudged Little Joe with his elbow,

"Uh, yeah," the youngest offered flatly in response, "Sure Pa,"

Adam didn't give an answer, nor did Ben want to spoil his tentative victory by trying to force one, making do with simply turning and striding from the breakfast table in stoic silence. The truth was that he hated fighting with his sons, Adam especially, his eldest usually his closest confidante both personally and professionally, and feeling the animosity between them more keenly that he cared to admit. On top of that, Adam was the one of all of his sons who could bear his father's disproval the best. If Hoss and Little Joe angered him, usually all it took was a word, or a stern look and the bridges would be mended, Adam however was different, weathering disagreements like some grizzled old veteran, holding firm regardless of what was thrown at him. If he thought he was right – and in this case he most certainly thought he was right about something – then Adam could hold out better than anyone, maybe even Ben himself. It was a knowledge that did not improve the Cartwright patriarch's mood.

"You think he means it?"

Joe had waited for the familiar sound of his father's boots on the top of the staircase before asking, looking directly to his eldest brother for a response – Adam the automatic choice when a family situation was blowing up around them and their father was not proving forthcoming. Still trying to stifle his own anger, Adam merely shook his head,

"I don't know," he replied wearily, before sensing his young sibling's furtive need for reassurance and trying to amend his own sentiments, "He's angry Joe, that's all. He lost a good friend in Brian, he's grieving."

"You think he's really in love with Mrs. Gilder?"

Sharing a look with Hoss, Adam answered for both of them,

"I think he believes himself to be, yes."

"Adam?" Hoss interjected curiously, "You still think Lowell Gilder had something to do with Brian's death? Even after they found Gracie guilty and hanged him an' all?"

"More so now than ever," he answered cryptically before picking up on his brothers quizzical looks, "Gracie told me that it was Mercedes Gilder who let him sleep the night in the barn."

"Mercedes?" Little Joe frowned, Hoss quickly following suit,

"But she said it was _Mr_. Gilder. You sure that Gracie wasn't lying to you?"

Adam shrugged,

"I can't see why he would. Besides, it's like I told Pa. Why would he deny it when he was all ready going to the gallows? Why not just confess – unless he didn't do it."

Clearly baffled by the latest twist in the tale, Hoss shook his head, repeating the name in incredulous tones,

"Mrs. Gilder. I just don't understand it – why'd she say a thing like that if it wasn't true?"

"I don't know Hoss," Adam replied evenly, before copying his father and standing from the table, "But I intend to find out,"

Quietly they watched him stalk towards the door and buckle on his gun belt before snagging his hat from its usual peg,

"Where're you going?" Hoss asked, a worried frown drawing across his face as he watched Adam pause momentarily before retrieving his newly bought, engraved pistol from its specially-built section in the cabinet and swapping it for the piece in his gun belt.

"The Gilder Ranch,"

"You think that's a good idea?"

Adam snorted, the sound dry and without amusement,

"Good idea or not, it's got to be better than letting Pa get himself any deeper. Besides, I'm not going there to accuse anyone, I just want to ask a few questions, that's all."

"What's the gun for?" Little Joe asked, watching as his oldest brother simply smiled back at him,

"Pretext."

"Huh?"

Dropping his hat onto his head with one hand, Adam stopped with his hand on the door to gaze back at his brothers, both staring over at him in a mixture of concern and confusion.

"If Pa asks where I've gone – ,"

Little Joe beat him to an answer,

"We'll cover for you. Good luck."

Hoss' advise was more practical – and uneasy,

"You mind yourself older brother, y'hear me?"

"I hear you Hoss."

Then the front door clicked, and he was gone.

….

**Chapter Ten.**

Never having been a man of expensive tastes, the ranch house Brian Gilder had built for his family had been modest to say the least; simple if you were cruel, or perhaps honest. Additions had been stitched on over the years – mostly at the behest of Mercedes – but even these did not contribute much to the over all scale of the property, which instead had to rely on the much-attended to grandeur of its interior decoration. As far as Adam was concerned, not knowing how to spend money had never been a problem for Mercedes' Gilder.

The place seemed empty as Adam rode up, devoid of activity, which was unusual enough for a big working ranch like the Ponderosa but almost unheard of for one as compact as the Gilder's. It struck a sense of disquiet in him at once, making the short trot from the gate to the hitching post seem like something of a long and lonely expedition, his eyes flicking from side to side as he searched for signs of life.

Trent Wilson had mentioned to Adam the sudden slacking of work that had come with Brian's death and the near apathy with which Mercedes delegated the day-to-day running. Had it not been for the intervention of his father, Adam doubted there'd have been any work done on Gilder land for over a week, nor did seemingly allowing her ranch to court ruination ease Adam's concerns about the grieving widow in question.

The sound of his knuckles on the little wooden doorframe fractured the silence with the subtly of an explosion, the noise ripping through the stillness yet managing to accentuate it all the same, as did the ensuing lack of response.

"Mrs. Gilder?" Adam tried, realising how hard his voice sounded and trying to temper its edge, "Lowell? Anybody home?"

The answer was apparently still no.

It was as he grit his teeth in frustration however that Adam noticed that one of the was standing doors ajar, and, noticing a tiny fleck of something red standing stark against the white paint, he bent to look at it closer; A fingerprint – a bloody fingerprint. Dried, faded, and clearly at least a few days old.

The sight made him catch his breath.

There were, of course, a million reasons why somebody might have a bloody fingerprint smudged on their doorframe, particularly on a working ranch where cuts, bruises and other scrapes and scratches were a daily hazard, but something about _that_ print was different; it's location; a faintness; the lack of any other trace of injury, almost like something had been cleaned up…or cleaned away.

Glancing round one last time, Adam drew the gun cautiously from his belt and gave the door a tentative push with one hand, watching as it swung open wide before him. It took less than a second for him to wage the silent debate that followed, finally stepping in across the threshold as his sense of duty overcame his vague trepidation.

"Hello?"

Inside the same silence greeted him, and, deciding once and for all that there was no one in, he moved into the sitting room, taking in the lace, velvet drapes, Persian rugs and silk couches that littered every square inch like some French parlour – evidently, twenty years of marriage had left Mercedes little else to do except collect and design, and clearly with some enthusiasm. It was a room he had seen several times before on the walk to and from Brian's office, but standing there alone and knowing that he was looking for something made it seem completely different; almost, unknown.

Moving steadily, he quickly crossed to the fireplace, eyes finding out the poker set gleaming beside the hearth and then turning to take in the several small statuettes placed on mantelpieces and dressers, suddenly seeing a murder weapon almost everywhere and wondering what exactly he had hoped to find.

Turning to leave, he collided with a small armchair, nearly knocking it over entirely as it shifted visibly to reveal the wide expanse of the carefully crafted rug underneath, the sight suddenly stopping him dead. Beneath the chair, the rug was stained red, a great big expanse of it; uneven edges flowing into the fibres and fabrics, smaller spray decorating the dark maroon perimeters. Whatever had happened on that spot, it wasn't an everyday farming accident and he knew it.

Adam had found the spot where Brian Gilder had lost his life.

"Adam? Adam Cartwright?"

The voice startled him and instinctively he swung towards the doorway, gun held up as he turned towards the surprised but surprisingly _un_-alarmed face of Mercedes Gilder.

"Oh, Mrs. Gilder, forgive me," instantly his expression was all easy charm, the forced geniality masking his internal vigilance. Given what he had just found she was perhaps the last person he wanted to see. Not that he was going to let her know it, "I didn't hear you come in."

"No, I except not," came the reply, cool and clipped, "What exactly _are_ you doing in here, if you don't mind me asking?"

Adam continued to smile affably,

"I saw the door open – I thought I'd better check to see if everything was all right."

"My, how brave of you," her tone remained icy, "But you didn't answer my question."

Adam blinked, his own gaze cool,

"No? How thoughtless of me."

"What are you doing here Adam?"

"I came to talk to Lowell," breaking eye contact for the first time, Adam moved forward, covering the remaining blood stain with his feet and holding the gun aloft for the first time, watching as the gleam of the ivory handle caught and sustained Mercedes' attention, "He made me an offer in town the other day. Having duly considered I'd like to take him up on it, if it still stands of course."

He watched as Mercedes stared back at him, momentarily losing some of the harshness,

"You came on business?"

Adam shrugged,

"I suppose you could call it that."

She seemed to relax visibly, the shift as sudden as if the unpleasantness had never occurred.

"Well," she sighed, "In that case please, take a seat, here, let me take your hat,"

Adam paused, momentarily caught off-guard,

"You really don't need to – ," But as she bustled forwards regardless Adam quickly swept off his hat and held it outwards, keen to stop her from moving in too close for fear she would see the misplaced chair and the red parameters under his boots, "Thank you."

"Won't you sit?" she called, sweeping into the hallway before reappearing once more. Adam smiled,

"I'd rather not if you don't mind. I really can't stay too long. I've got one or two things I need to take care of today."

"Just like your father," Mercedes responded glibly, fixing him with a look of mock disproval, "Always busy, racing here and there."

Adam paused briefly,

"Well, if you want to keep a ranch running that's the way it has to be."

She paused abruptly, trying instantly to pretend nothing had happened but her tone hardening a little once more as she looked up and suddenly held out her hand with a smile,

"Do you mind if I see? Lowell has never had much of a head for money, I'd like to make sure he's not going to waste his inheritance – not that you wouldn't be more than fair to him, naturally."

Adam smiled back insincerely,

"Naturally."

"Call it a mother's prerogative."

Her hand was still outstretched, and suddenly Adam found himself facing a dilemma. If he didn't let her have the gun his apprehension would seem misplaced, if he did let her have it however, he would be without a means of defending himself. Instead he simply widened his smile,

"It's loaded Mrs. Gilder. I would hate for you to get hurt just for the sake of taking a look,"

"Oh Adam," Mercedes shot back brightly, "I've held a gun before."

His options fast running out and Mercedes moving closer by the second, Adam made his decision, turning the gun around and passing it across handle-first, all the while praying openness would be his best course of deception. He watched cautiously as the woman before him turned the weapon over in her hands, running fingers across the engraving and, for a moment at least, appearing vaguely mesmerized. Adam nodded towards it in the silence,

"It's pretty special,"

"It certainly is," Mercedes offered back before looking up, a strange expression crossing her face.

Adam was across the room on top of her before she could fire, grabbing her hands and wrenching the point of the gun up and away from his body. The shot rang out around them, clattering off several surfaces before shattering into something they neither of them had time to figure out. Mercedes Gilder was fighting like a mad woman, her grip on the gun as fierce as it was hysterical. Unfortunately for her however, Adam was bigger and a lot stronger, his own grip on the firearm quickly outclassing her own although she still didn't give up.

"Ma?!" It was as a new voice entered the room that Adam paused, watching as Lowell's worried-looking face swung instantly to an unnerving gleam on catching sight of the man grappling with his mother. The gun at the boy's own side raised instinctively, and, sudden fear grabbing at his gut, Adam raised a hand in his direction, sensing his chances taking a sudden turn for the worse.

"Lowell, no – ,"

As an explosion of sound echoed across the room, Adam felt it mirrored in a sudden pain in his shoulder, a wave of agony flowing across it and sending a ripple of cold through his entire body, resonating down right into his fingertips and sending him crashing backwards onto the floor, a gasp for breath ripping from his throat. As his shoulder began to spasm violently, blood beginning to draw tentative and gathering streaks down his arm, he vaguely registered Mercedes Gilder moving to stand above him, the gilt pistol pointing at his head,

"You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you Adam? You just couldn't keep out."

….

**Chapter Eleven.**

It had taken Ben Cartwright many years to develop his 'sixth sense' – many years and more examples than could easily be counted on a mere two handfuls of digits – but somewhere between his children's childhoods, adolescence and adulthood it had boomed none the less; a deep and innate instinct that instantly flew up a red flag whenever one of his younger sons tried to lie to him, or worse, keep from him whatever it was he wanted to know.

They all of them knew it was only a matter of time before he broke their resolve, but that didn't stop them playing the same game each time, with – it had to be said – a tenacity that seemed to grow with them and was becoming harder and harder to quell.

He'd known something was wrong on riding up to the top field expecting to find all three of his sons herding their newly acquired, much sought-after and, unfortunately, down-right grumpy bull towards the heifers.

Instead he'd found only two sons...

…and one down-right grumpy bull.

"Boys," he'd greeted quickly, casting round in the saddle and registering both Hoss and Little Joe squirm a little before him, exchanging the fleeting glance all three of his children used between one another when seeking reassurance or solidarity. They'd known what was coming next and they'd not been disappointed, "Adam not with you?"

Since breakfast, Ben's mood had calmed a little, thanks in small part to a successful meeting with Mr. Huggins and in a larger part due to his own careful reflection on the matter.

Blunt though he could be, if there was one thing Ben knew about his eldest son it was that he would never do anything to purposely hurt his father, or for that matter any of his family. If Adam had genuine concerns then it was Ben's job to put those concerns at ease, which he'd begun to realise wasn't going to happen by simply shouting rebuttals across the dining table.

He couldn't deny however that Adam's non-appearance at the top field sparked within him an instant and hot combination of surprise and annoyance. Nor did Hoss and Little Joe's overly cheerful explanation and conversational deviations help his mood.

"Err…no Pa," Joe begun with a wide grin – copied by Hoss – before swerving abruptly onto a new topic and leaning forward in his saddle to gesture towards the bull still snorting angrily in the pen beside them. Ben nearly joined him, "Cold today, huh Pa? And Charlemagne here sure isn't making things any easier,"

Before he could reply however, Hoss interjected in similarly bright tones,

"Yessir, it's colder'n a snowflake's nose out here – wind's whipping up somethin' fierce too. If I didn't know any better I'd say winter's coming back all over again, wouldn't you say Little Joe?"

More exaggerated nodding followed, Little Joe's cool only breaking slightly under the continued scrutiny of his quietly fuming father.

"I think you're right Hoss…may-maybe we should go back home and get our coats, huh?"

"Boys," It was a single word response that silenced them, each taking in the dangerous look on the face of the Cartwright patriarch before them and deciding that their banter had seen it's run. Ben kept his voice low but firm, "Where is your brother?"

Sharing another of their looks, Little Joe took the lead smiling once more – albeit slightly more nervously – and shrugging,

"He's, uh, not here Pa."

Ben raised an unimpressed eyebrow,

"So I see. Do either of you care to tell me where exactly he _is_?"

Clearing his throat somewhat awkwardly, Hoss glanced down to study the back of his horse's neck closely, trying to keep his tone mild as he responded,

"I – I'm not sure he said Pa. Little Joe? Did…did Adam mention to you where he was going?"

"It's, kinda hard to remember – ," the youngest replied loyally, lifting his hand to scratch absently at the back of his head and allowing his gaze to drop from his father's, "Virginia City…maybe?"

"I just came from Virginia City," Ben countered, punctuating his words carefully and fast reaching the end of his tether, "Now are you boys going to tell me where your brother is or not?!"

As it rose to a shout, Hoss let out a long sigh,

"Pa, he's just trying to protect you is all,"

"Protect me!" hissed Ben hotly, "Protect me from _what_?"

"Mercedes Gilder isn't the woman you think she is," Joe shot back, surprising them all with the force of his convictions.

"Joseph – ," reacting on command, Ben's horse took a step forward, stopping only as Hoss joined in the verbal protest,

"I reckon he's right Pa. Now, I ain't saying she's no murderer, but something's not right about this whole situation, and I reckon she's got something to do with it."

Neither Little Joe nor Hoss minded the thought of their father remarrying. For them, his happiness came first and all the other concerns and confusion caused by inheriting a new mother figure would have paled into insignificance beside his overwhelming happiness. But if they knew something of love, and if they knew something of their father in love, then they also knew that it sometimes blinded parties to the truth. They also knew their eldest brother, and, despite generally being able to find a reservation where there would seemingly be none, they also knew what he had told them, and they knew when he was most probably right.

The truth didn't promise to be particularly pretty, but the alternative was no option at all.

Ben blinked back at them, momentarily shell shocked, his rage swelling like an uncontrollable beast. Instead of unleashing it however, he simply set his face harshly and nodded,

"Thank you boys," he began, disarmingly calm, "You've just told me where your brother is."

And in one fluid motion he wheeled his horse away from them and set off at a gallop towards the Gilder Ranch, cursing his eldest son's pig-headed stubbornness and leaving two more gaping uncertainly in his wake.

Watching their father ride off into the swirling plume of dust he was creating, Little Joe swallowed almost nervously,

"What do you think he'll do when he catches up to Adam?"

Hoss sighed,

"I don't know little brother, but I reckon we should wait a while before heading home tonight."

Little Joe wasn't arguing that one.

….

**Chapter Twelve. **

For all intent and purpose, Adam's arm had gone numb. Only the radiating waves of pins and needles that spiked his every movement reminded him it was still there at all, and that was largely in between trying to control the hot, agonising pain that burnt at his shoulder as he tried to stem the blood flow. His hand was slick with blood, the palm pressing excruciating and firm against the wound and so covered that he was having a hard time keeping it in place as it instead tried to slide off across his skin.

The blood loss worried him, naturally, but what worried him more were the little things; how tired he was starting to feel, how sluggish, how cold he seemed and, possibly at the top of that list, the fact that Lowell Gilder was standing across the room pointing – insult of insults – his very own hand-engraved, ivory-handled gun at him. The boy might have just clipped him the first time, but he was clearly shaping up for a bulls eye if allowed a second attempt. The only thing that seemed to be stopping him was Mercedes Gilder, standing tall and proud across from them, her face so eerily calm that she could have been at a pew in Church on a Sunday morning rather than staring coldly at the slumped form of Adam Cartwright.

"Lowell," she spoke suddenly, the sound making Adam's head jerk and his heart pound, "Take his horse into the barn, we don't want people seeing it outside."

Practical enough, Adam thought wryly in response – this was obviously not Mercedes' first murder. But then he all ready knew that. Lowell however, seemed less than willing.

"I think we should kill him Ma," he spat, the sentence punctuated by hatred and the kid by now pumped so full of adrenaline that he was visibly twitching, seemingly unable to stand still, his fingers constantly flexing around the trigger.

"Lowell," Mercedes repeated sharply, "Do as I say now. Take his horse into the barn."

For a moment Adam thought the boy was going to ignore her altogether and give in to his seemingly innate need for revenge, but suddenly he turned, eyes still on Adam as he edged grudgingly from the room.

"You gonna be all right with him?"

Mercedes' smile widened disturbingly,

"He's not going anywhere."

Nor was he.

As Lowell's footsteps faded off across the yard Adam turned to study Mercedes Gilder in response eyeing him steadily across the room; the pair of them locked in a fierce staring contest that Adam chose to break first, sucking in a deep breath and trying to keep the pained-hitch in his voice from sounding as he spoke for the first time since the bullet had carved a channel into his shoulder.

"So what now?"

Mercedes regarded him coolly in response,

"I suppose you realise what happened to Brian?"

"I realise," Adam confirmed, the conversation so unnervingly mild in tone that they could almost have been discussing the weather, "I realise that he was killed by the people he loved rather than the murderer everybody thinks did it."

Mercedes snorted suddenly, a hint of contempt creeping into her voice,

"You didn't have to live with him. The man was insufferable. He didn't love us, he loved his money."

"And what about you?" Adam responded, narrowing his eyes, "Isn't that what this was all about?"

"Not just the money, no. It was about _freedom_, about being free to do and say and spend as I see fit,"

"With Brian's money."

Mercedes paused to regard him hotly,

"Brian's money _is _my money."

Sensing an opportunity, Adam stretched out his leg surreptitiously. In switching to the antique gun, Lowell had placed his own on a small table beside one of the armchairs, only several feet from where Adam lay half-propped against the wall. If he could get it onto the ground he could reach it and gain himself a more level footing. Unfortunately however Mercedes was as perceptive as she was devious, her eyes narrowing and her smile turning up further,

"I wouldn't Adam. Lowell will be back any second, and I don't suppose I need to tell you how quick to anger he is. All you've got keeping you alive at this moment is me,"

Observing her with something like a wry grin – born of a grimace of pain – Adam nodded slowly,

"How long for?"

"That's for me to decide."

"Only there's no passing murderer to pin it on this time," Adam responded, feeling a bead of blood beginning to thread it's way down his chest. Evidently his hand was doing little to staunch the continued blood-loss. Mercedes smiled back thinly,

"No. I admit, Gracie's arrival was certainly fortuitous. Just think, if he'd chosen to lie-low in any other ranch around these parts Brian would still be alive now, and I would still be watching, waiting and praying for my moment just as I have been these long years. The Lord works in mysterious ways,"

Adam blinked, his teeth clenching through a sudden spasm of pain,

"I'd strongly doubt his working for you at all."

"Now, now," Mercedes cooed suddenly, her face crumpling into something regarding mock-distress, "I'm the grieving widow, remember?"

"I suppose you enjoyed deceiving my father?"

Abruptly, the question seemed to quell the mood, Mercedes becoming as close to sincere as Adam imagined it was possible to be given her recent history. Suddenly however she seemed almost…tender.

"I didn't deceive your father Adam, I wouldn't. I merely kept him from the truth because I knew how it would distress him. I was protecting him."

"You killed his friend."

"But I am the woman he loves. There's no contest."

Adam felt himself rankle despite his best efforts, his ensuing riposte composed as much to convince himself as the madwoman before him.

"He doesn't love you,"

Mercedes stared back unflinching,

"He's always loved me – he just never realised. We were always meant to be together Adam, that detestable Marie might have stolen him for a while, but I always knew he'd come back."

On hearing the name of his former stepmother, Adam felt himself pause momentarily, his anger at her memory being so sullied combining with his surprise at her presence in such a strange and fractured situation. If he'd thought Mercedes Gilder mad before, then he now knew her to be utterly insane.

The tense mood was abruptly broken by the hasty and breathless reappearance of Lowell, waving his gun frantically in the direction of the door and bringing with him a sense of uncontrolled panic. Lowell Gilder in charge of a gun and unnervingly cool had been frightening; Lowell Gilder in charge of a gun and panicking was absolutely terrifying.

"Ma!" he hissed, eyes wide and wild with fear, "Ma there's someone coming!"

Rather than face her son however, Mercedes' eyes instead found out Adam, narrowing into a glare as she clearly tried to decide whether or not anyone would have known his whereabouts. Gazing back impassively, Adam gave her nothing to work with – if she wanted to decide the cavalry was coming then so be it.

"Did you see who it was?" she directed at Lowell eventually, eyes still locked with her captive. Lowell was flicking an anxious tongue across cracked lips,

"I – I don't know, but I think maybe it was Cartwright,"

Two sets of eyes flickered his way sharply,

"Ben?" hissed Mercedes, watching her son suddenly dry his now-moist lips with the sleeve of his shirt and nod quickly,

"Yeah, yeah I think so…w-what are we going to do Ma?"

Adam stared back at her, watching the temporary alarm with something akin to a smirk. The truth was he had no idea that his father's arrival was entirely positive – there seemed little enough sense in them both being in danger – but the thought of his presence, not to mention the completion of Mercedes' fall from grace were comforting none the less. Abruptly however, Mercedes came to her own conclusion,

"Nothing."

"What? But Ma – ,"

"We're going to do nothing Lowell," she replied firmly, "I will answer the door as normal and you will stay in here – ," she gestured to Adam, " – with him."

Lowell needed little further instruction, his face breaking a grin once more and the gun rising to point somewhere central on Adam's chest as his bravado returned,

"I'll keep him quiet Ma."

"You'd better," she snapped before turning to glance at their worn-looking prisoner, "One noise out of you – if you so much as even draw breath…"

And then she was gone, the half-finished threat seemingly all she felt was needed. Which, with Lowell grinning like a deranged Cheshire Cat and his fingers continuing to flick nervously around the trigger, was about all she had needed. He didn't know what was going to happen next, but Adam did know enough to keep quiet – although it didn't stop his eyes flashing across to the discarded gun on the low table.

If only…

Standing before the mirror in the hallway, Mercedes took a moment to replace the few strands of hair that had come loose in her mad grapple with Adam for the gun, smoothing them back into place with the palm of her hand and using the same approach for the wrinkles in her dress before considering herself sufficiently restored to meet company.

She opened the door at the same moment Ben was reaching up to rap against it, both of them pausing for a moment and Mercedes noting at once that he looked flustered,

"Ben, I saw you coming," she began before frowning in concern, "Is anything the matter?"

Clearly something was.

"Mercedes," he began, a tad breathlessly, "Forgive me for turning up so suddenly – ,"

"Not at all," she replied mildly,

"Has my son been here today? Have you seen Adam?"

Blinking a little in what she hoped was surprise and allowing a similar expression to cover the swell of anxiety rising in her chest, Mercedes smiled back sweetly and frowned in tones of subtle confusion,

"Adam? Why no, I've not seen him for several days."

Almost as if becoming aware of his surroundings for the first time, Ben frowned and turned to look at her directly. This time he was the one appearing confused.

"He's not been round?"

Mercedes stared back unflinching,

"No. I wish he had."

"Oh. I could have sworn – ,"

For a second Ben seemed almost deflated and finding it endearing Mercedes moved in close to rest a hand against his wrist,

"Did you need him for something?"

"Apparently not," Ben smiled as the mood between them became more pleasant, "I'm sorry again to have disturbed you."

"Don't be silly," she smiled back before turning to glance over her shoulder as if debating with herself, "I'd invite you in but Lowell and I have just been sorting through some of Brian's belongings and – ,"

Ben held up a hand at once,

"I understand."

"But maybe we'll see you tomorrow evening?" Mercedes pressed hopefully, not releasing her grip on his arm, "For dinner?"

"I would like that very much,"

"As would I."

Sharing one more tender smile, Mercedes reluctantly lifted her hand from Ben's, standing beside the door and watching him turn to leave. As he did however his eyes suddenly caught something sitting on the hat stand beside the door and instantly he froze, his whole expression draining away to something altogether more startled and with it utterly unreadable.

"Ben?" Mercedes frowned, genuinely puzzled by the reaction and only registering the cause as the older man lifted a finger and pointed to something black hanging otherwise discreetly amongst a collection of coats – most of them Brian's. This item was definitely not.

The frown almost folded Ben's face in half,

"That's – that's Adam's hat – ,"

"Ben I – ,"

Abruptly everything happened at once. At the same moment that Mercedes heaved the door shut, Ben barged his bulk into it, preventing it from closing as he tried to force his way through, as baffled as he was concerned and, apparently, angry. Wrenching it open with such force that Mercedes suddenly staggered backwards, Ben burst fully into the hall, casting around with one name on his lips,

"Adam?" It took three short steps before he emerged into the sitting room, eyes instantly finding out the figure sitting slumped against the wall, one arm hanging limply by his side, the other tucked under the collar of his shirt and nursing a worrying looking injury, "Adam!"

His son was breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling in exaggerated heaves, head swaying gently backwards and forwards with the motion as if becoming too heavy to easily hold up. Down by his fingers, telltale streaks of blood were beginning to trickle from inside his cuff and judging by the saturated folds of his shirt, the blood loss – and probably therefore the wound itself – was becoming serious. Ben felt his gut twist instinctively,

"Son," stepping towards him his voice breaking a little, Ben stopped on instinct as his eldest raised a warning hand in his direction, eyes flickering to one side in silent explanation, one exhausted-sounding word on his lips.

"Pa – ,"

It was then that Ben registered Lowell standing in the far corner, grinning eerily, gun still held ready for use before him. Behind them, Mercedes had moved into the room to join the impromptu gathering, for the first time having the decency to look vaguely conflicted, although her son harboured no such emotions.

"Hey Mr. Cartwright," he chipped gleefully and in tones of mock-respect, "Glad you could make it. Now drop your gun – unless you want me to take another shot at Adam here."

Silently, Ben's eyes found his son's, the pair sharing one clear, silent thought.

They were in trouble.

Big trouble.

….

**Chapter Thirteen.**

Rather than risk his son further, Ben had done as he was told and relinquished his gun belt – not that it had made him any happier about the situation.

For a while they had all stood – or in Adam's case sat – in an awkward and uncertain silence, no one apparently sure where things went from that point, or how to best resolve a stand-off from which everybody seemed to want different outcomes – not all of them sane. Eventually however, and registering a grimace of pain flash across Adam's face, Ben went to take a step forward. Lowell found him with the point of the gun almost at once,

"Now, hold on there – ,"

Ben wasn't having any of it,

"My son is hurt!" he snapped hotly, turning in the direction of the boy and suddenly not giving a damn about the gun barrel aimed at him, "He needs a doctor!"

"That's not going to happen Ben," Mercedes offered quietly in the background, drawing the older man's ire and allowing Lowell again to retrain his focus on Adam who watched him do it silently.

"Mercedes…" Ben began before tempering his anger to allow in a measure of implored reason, "Please, you must let me help him. I don't understand why you're doing this!"

His anger seemed to upset her, the late Mrs. Gilder actually looking a little anxious for the first time since the whole debacle had started,

"Please don't be like that Ben – ,"

"Like _what_?!" he snapped, outraged by her behaviour and his temper fast swelling. It made her shrill in response, the answer coming out in a high-pitched shout,

"He knows too much! He knows everything! Is that what you want? Is that how you want things to be Benjamin Cartwright?!"

Everybody again lapsed into silence, Mercedes taking the opportunity to re-gather herself, raising a hand to her face to conceal her sudden emotion. Ben continued to frown, his understanding teetering on the edge but shielding itself from a truth that was now almost inevitable,

"_Knows_ _what_?" he asked dangerously, the lack of reply turning the repeated question in a shout, "What does he know?!"

"They killed Brian Pa," Adam filled in quietly, his son's voice making Ben turn and his expression soften. The simplicity of the delivery conflicted at once with the sentiments and almost instinctively Ben shook his head,

"No…"

"They knew Gracie was in the barn – they let him stay the night. Then they killed Brian between them and dragged his body out into the barn. The screams that alerted us to Brian's body that morning also woke Gracie – that was why he ran."

Listening to the explanation in horror, and feeling a lump rising in his throat at the husky, weary-sounding delivery from his battle-scarred son, Ben struggled to keep down his own emotions.

"So you were right all along," he offered quietly in response, eyes glinting with feeling as Adam snorted in vague amusement,

"I wish I weren't. I'm sorry Pa."

"Don't be. You've got nothing to be sorry about."

Behind them, seemingly wishing to interject into the father and son moment, Mercedes stepped forward, her voice wavering slightly. Gently she reached out a hand, resting it against Ben's and feeling him briefly stiffen in outrage at the contact. It broke her heart,

"Ben – ,"

"You killed a good friend of mine," he replied quietly, his tone so low with repulsion that even Adam blinked across at him, "You _shot_ my son – ,"

"For _us_!" she pleaded, reaching across to grip him with both hands and pulling at his shirt in an effort to make him face her, "I did it for us!"

"_Us_?!" he bellowed, "Mercedes there is no _us_!"

She faltered immediately,

"But, but you said – ,"

Turning to face her for the first time, Ben felt as though he were turning to look at a desperate stranger, clawing at him frantically, eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Do you think I could love a woman who would hurt people? Who would murder her own husband?!"

"You don't know what Brian was like – ,"

"I know he was a good man – I know he was a good man who had the misfortune to marry a woman who only loved him for his money!"

"No – ,"

"Well congratulations Mercedes, it's all yours now!"

As the tears began to spill, Ben turned away once more, feeling himself disgusted by them and knowing full well they were being spent purely for herself,

"Ben. You know me, you know I'm not like that – ,"

When he spoke again his voice was cold.

"I'm taking my son out of here Mercedes,"

"No you ain't!" Lowell piped up in the unease, his voice sounding more uncertain than ever as he watched his mother cry in front of him, her lack of control affecting his own. Unconsciously his grip tightened on the gun handle.

"Boy," Ben responded darkly, finger outstretched in warning, "You put that gun down."

"I ain't a boy – ,"

"That's exactly what you are!" Ben bellowed back, the rebuttal so authoritative that the youth flinched visibly, "Now I won't tell you again – put it down!"

Evidently, whatever paternal hold Brian had employed over his family, it hadn't been an angry one, and watching the kid's face Adam suddenly doubted whether he'd ever been spoken to in such tones before. His ensuing fear suggested not.

It was as her son began to cave however that Mercedes spoke up again, her voice so different-sounding that for a moment it almost seemed as though it belonged to someone else; flat; emotionless and devoid of anything other than content.

"He's got to die Ben," she uttered indifferently. Clearly the small piece of sanity Mercedes Gilder had been clinging onto had slipped between her fingers into the abyss below. The man she loved had rejected her – she now had nothing to lose and so she continued in worryingly blank tones, "It's the only way. You'll thank me someday Ben – when we're happy. I know you will."

Sensing her low descent Ben calmed instinctively, hands creeping up in a submissive entreaty,

"Mercedes," he started carefully, "He's my son."

"Lowell will be your son," she responded without looking at him, the sentiments making him shudder,

"Mercedes – ,"

She didn't hear him,

"He's a good boy Ben, he'll be a good son to you. You don't need Adam anymore."

Glancing across the room father and son exchanged looks, Ben catching the way Adam's jaw clenched tightly against what was obviously continuing pain, the torture he was enduring rising up into his eyes and carrying across the short distance in a show of silent stamina. In a single moment Ben had never been more proud – or more worried.

"Adam," he instructed quietly, choosing to ignore Mercedes completely and not knowing if it would work, "Can you stand?"

After a fractional pause a weary nod met his question,

"I think so Pa."

Ben dared not move,

"On your feet then – ," it was a horrible request, but neither could he think of anything else, turning back to Mercedes not wishing to see his son's pain but unable to block out of the sounds as Adam struggled to his feet in the background, one wary eye on Lowell. Ben fought to remain calm as he took in the expressionless woman before him, his tone level and without judgement, "Mercedes, we are going to leave now. I won't tell anyone what has happened – I hope you chose to instead. Adam?"

When he turned back he was relieved to see his son standing unsteadily on two feet, looking like death warmed up but ready to react to instructions none the less.

"Pa?"

"Come on son."

As Adam took a tentative step towards the outstretched arm of his father, everything looked as though it was going to be fine. Lowell was still fidgeting, the gun still pointed at Adam, but without his mother's command he seemed uncertain about everything, his constant sideways glances towards her giving him nothing but more anxiety. She seemed lifeless. As Adam took a second shaky step however, all that changed.

"No!" It was a shout that would have woken the dead, bouncing off every inch of the room and ringing from the surfaces under the force of its sentiments. Mercedes Gilder was shouting, the last fragments of control lost, "No! No, no, no, no, no – ,"

"Mercedes – ," Ben stepped forward automatically, knowing that with her complete breakdown the situation was likely to explode again. He was so close to getting Adam out he couldn't let it all fall down around them now.

Mercedes however was banking on exactly that, and as Ben's hands closed around her arms she let lose the one thing he had been praying not to hear.

"Kill him Lowell! Shoot him!"

Ben spun at the same instant the bullet burst from the gun, his expression one of disbelieving horror,

"No!"

Adam however was quicker. The moment Mercedes had given the order he threw himself to the floor. He'd known instantly that it was going to hurt – more than that, possibly render him unconscious – but as the bullet whistled over the top of his head with little room to spare he was suddenly glad he had done so. As expected, piling sideways into the rug had sent an almighty jar of pain across his shoulders, but even as he'd yelled out he was alert to the noises around him – to be more exact, the sounds of a fight.

No sooner had the gun discharged than Ben flung himself at Lowell, wrapping his fingers around the barrel before the boy even had a chance to change it's direction. Ben Cartwright was working on fury. He'd registered Adam falling, but in his haze of emotions couldn't be sure whether it had been a survival reflex or a response to a clear hit. Either way the boy before him had injured his son and as a result he was dealing with the full wrath of a distraught father.

Lowell however was stronger than he looked, his form wiry and, although no match for Ben's strength, fast – very fast. Delivering a swift blow to the midsection, Lowell followed it with a kick to the back of the knee, watching Ben stumble away and fall heavily onto a dresser, briefly using it's solidity to support himself. As the gun clicked beside him Ben stifled a curse, aware that his anger had gotten the better of him and that he, like his son, was about to pay because of it. The explosion of gunfire however seemed not to come from beside him, but instead behind, and he watched in startled disbelief as the red-headed figure of Lowell Gilder groaned, the gleaming pistol swinging limply from his fingers as he stumbled and pitched heavily to the ground where he lay unmoving.

Gasping for breath, Ben spun into the room, his eyes finding Adam half-slumped across a small table, Lowell's original gun in his hands and a tiny wisp of smoke rising from the barrel.

Adam had saved _him_.

Both stood simultaneously, Adam's ascent more of a struggle, but his eyes intense as he watched his father cross to Lowell's body and gently lay two fingers along the boy's neck. Finding nothing Ben dropped his head briefly.

"He's dead," he confirmed, not knowing to whom he was delivering the news, but feeling that it needed delivering all the same.

However neither of them were prepared for the primeval scream that unleashed from behind, barely registering as a blur burst across the room and launched itself at Adam, driving him backwards against the wall with a sharp thud as he raised his arms to fight off the wild beast suddenly pummelling him.

Mercedes was shrieking, short, undecipherable screeches accentuated by each pounding fist she threw and eventually evolving into words, spat with loathing,

"I hate you Adam Cartwright! I hate you! I hate you!"

She was still screaming as Ben reached them, catching her fists and hauling her backwards bodily,

"Mercedes!" he bellowed, trying to break through but barely able to contain her as she swung wildly at his son, whose every last piece of energy seemed to be poured into the act of self-defence; eyes screwed shut; face awash with pain. With a final roar of anger Ben pulled the woman off entirely, swinging her away and placing himself in the middle of the battle, an unmoveable, protective barrier, "Mercedes – ," he began again.

Mercedes ignored him, her face instead crumpling in devastation as she turned brokenly towards her son. Her dishevelled hair bobbed gently as she dropped to her knees beside him, laying a hand on his back and starting to cry, a long, shaking wail that was as distressing to hear as it was to witness. Despite everything she had done Ben pitied her the loss of her child keenly, and turning to his own he felt the sentiments effect his tone which suddenly became hoarse with unshed emotion.

"Adam? Son?"

Adam was leaning forward in exhaustion, the gradient so violent that Ben was forced to put a hand on his shoulder for fear he might topple over altogether, taking in the pale, pain-screwed features and the deep shuddering breaths being dragged in across the lips. Fleetingly however, Adam's eyes flickered upwards,

"You ok Pa?"

If he'd not been so concerned Ben might have cried with laughter. As it was, his grip merely tightened on the blood-soaked shirt,

"I'm fine. What about you boy?"

"I've been worse," although as his eyes began to droop and his body sank forwards Ben doubted that immensely, catching the heavy weight as it suddenly pitched into his arms and lowering them both gently to the ground,

"Adam?" he barked desperately, heart lurching as he didn't receive an answer, "Adam?!"

"S'okay Pa, I'm all right," it was husky, but any answer was better than none.

The sound of feet pounding on the porch outside caught Ben's attention immediately and looking up he registered the bewildered features of Trent Wilson, paused on the threshold with a look of disbelief on his face,

"What in the world – ," he began before being cut off briskly by an urgent-sounding Ben,

"Wilson, send someone into Virginia City now – we need the doctor and the sheriff,"

"W-what happened?"

"Now!" It was all the encouragement the foreman needed, instantly heading back off across the yard, shouting at someone that Ben neither knew nor cared about as long as they were doing what was asked. Looking down he moved himself into a more comfortable position, letting Adam lie back against his broad chest, one hand pressing firmly on the wound, the other across his son's shirt and taking in the steady rise and fall beneath his palm. It was more comforting than anything he could have imagined, "You're going to be all right Adam," he assured them both, grimacing as he registered Mercedes Gilders' continued sobbing in the background and wishing he could drown out its desolation, "You're going to be fine."

"Are you?" Adam asked suddenly, making Ben smile bleakly despite the slur he registered in the words,

"Yes. Yes, I'll be fine too."

_Once I know you are son, _he thought fiercely, _once I know you are._

….

**Chapter Fourteen.**

Hoss and Little Joe were the forth and fifth people respectively through the door and only minutes behind Sheriff Coffee, Doctor Martin and Trent Wilson.

Registering their arrival with only vague-awareness Adam's first thought was to wonder how his brothers had managed to hear the news so quickly, a consideration quickly forgotten as Doctor Martin probed into the shoulder wound with all the delicacy of a blind elephant, his ensuing apology only reaching Adam's ears as a low and half-audible mumble.

"Pa?"

It was Hoss who spoke first, both he and his youngest brother coming to a breathless halt in the hallway and stopping in horror at the chaos around them.

In the corner of the room, Trent Wilson was pulling a weak but still hysterical Mercedes from the prone body of her son, Sheriff Coffee standing grimly alongside and casting around as though utterly bewildered. Their father was stood to one side, leaning over a slumped figure with Paul Martin who appeared to be attending to whatever damage had caused all the blood soaking the portion of shirt and chest they could see through the forest of limbs. As Ben turned towards the sound of his sons however, he revealed the injured party for the first time, watching the horror seep across their faces in response,

"Adam!"

Little Joe crossed the room at a flat out bolt, only stopping as Ben caught him by one arm and forced him gently backwards,

"Joe – ,"

Hoss was beside them in a flash, his voice punctuated with dumbfounded amazement,

"What happened here Pa?"

Little Joe was more explicit,

"What happened to Adam? Is he all right?"

Realising that the only reassurance he could give was the truth, Ben sighed, briefly shutting his eyes at the storm of anger he knew was going to follow. He was beginning to feel exhausted himself. It had turned into an unexpectedly fraught day.

"Lowell shot him."

"Shot him?!" the youngest echoed in murderous tones, spinning his head to take in the lifeless body of the red-headed boy and wishing he had not all ready been beaten to the task. Hoss maintained his own anger better,

"But why in the world would he do a thing like that Pa?"

Ben didn't even need to answer, Little Joe got their first.

"Because Adam knew what he did," he responded darkly, "He thought that by killing Adam he'd get away with it."

"I'm afraid it's more complicated than even that explanation Joseph," Ben sighed absently, as all three carefully watched Paul Martin continue his ministrations. Hoss looked away quickly, hating the sight of his eldest brother so pale and covered in blood, his head playing out unhappy alternatives,

"How'd ya mean Pa?"

This part was going to hurt.

"Lowell was carrying out Mercedes' orders."

On instinct Little Joe's expression darkened further – a feat Ben would have considered impossible had he not seen it for himself,

"So Adam was right all along,"

"Yes," Ben nodded wearily, "He was right. I should have seen that,"

"No Pa," Hoss interjected kindly, seeing the turmoil on the familiar features and laying comforting a hand on his father's shoulder, "It wasn't your fault. No one suspected 'cept Adam, not even Roy – oh, uh, 'scuse me Sheriff,"

As Roy Coffee appeared behind them – a small scowl flickering at a suddenly embarrassed looking Hoss – Little Joe took the opportunity to slink off and check on Adam, his older brother following suit under Roy's continued scrutiny. Waiting until the boys had both disappeared off into the corner, the Sheriff sighed heavily, turning to face his emotional-looking old friend with something akin to shame-faced resignation,

"Hoss' right Ben, you can't go blaming yourself. If this is anyone's fault it's mine – ," watching Ben move to counter him Roy held up a hand, stifling the protest, "No, Adam tried to tell me his concerns and I told him he was worrying about nothing. I was so sure Gracie was the killer I didn't even bother to look into it. That was my job Ben, I failed in that respect.

"But Roy – ,"

Again he was cut short,

"Now Ben don't you worry about me. I need to take a long hard look at myself but as long as I have your forgiveness – and Adam's forgiveness – then I reckon I'll just have to chalk this one up to experience, as much as it pains me to say that."

Nodding slowly, Ben raised his hand, clapping it fondly across Roy's shoulder,

"You don't need my forgiveness Roy, you never did. Nor Adam's, you know how highly he thinks of you."

"Well I'm mighty glad to hear that Ben."

As a semi-comfortable silence fell between them, Ben took a long, deep breath, building himself to ask the question they both knew was coming yet didn't know how to address,

"What will happen to Mercedes?"

Roy pulled a face in response, the answer apparently not even clear to himself,

"Honestly Ben? I don't know. Technically Gracie's already been hanged for the murder of Brian Gilder, and I'm not sure we've got any way of tying her directly to the killing,"

"You mean she's going to get away with what she's done?!" Ben responded hotly, tailing off again as it threatened to rise into a shout. Quick to placate him, Roy shook his head,

"Come on now Ben, you saw her. That woman is not sane – now I ain't saying she's going to the hangman's noose, or even jail, but that woman is not fit to be in society any more. Personally, I'm going to recommend having her installed in one of them big asylums they got, and I'm sure Doctor Martin will be more than happy to back me up on it. It'll be a cruel existence for her Ben – not that she doesn't deserve it – but in some ways the gallows might actually have been better."

It was a stark assessment, and fleetingly Ben had a glimpse of the woman Mercedes Gilder used to be, a flashback to the beautiful young woman she had been once before he had married Marie. He had never made the girl any promises, nor had they ever moved their tentative relationship beyond close friends, but clearly in their acquaintance the girl had read more, and not only that, but had hung onto that feeling for years. Suddenly Ben blinked, startled. Had he been the cause of her unhappiness? Of her insanity? Shaking his head as if to shake away the thought altogether, Ben tried to force it back out of his mind again. There was no hope in thinking that way – it would ruin him.

Vaguely he registered Roy moving away again, the spot in which he had been standing suddenly filling with the form of Paul Martin, rolling down his sleeves and waiting for the Cartwright patriarch to notice him.

"Ben?"

As eyes turned in his direction, they suddenly filled with anxiety and urgency,

"How is he Paul?"

The doctor smiled back gently, obviously having expected such a question and his expression immediately reassuring in its calm warmth,

"He'll be fine Ben. The bullet caught him at an angle, passed through nothing more than soft tissue – albeit quite a lot of soft tissue. The blood loss probably looks worse than it is, but he's going to need a lot of rest for the next few days, and plenty of fluids. Don't let him go back to work before it's healed."

Ben smiled, his relief re-igniting his energy. Suddenly he felt utterly blessed.

"Thanks Paul," he beamed, taking the physician's hand and pumping it up and down enthusiastically.

"He was lucky Ben," came the response, a little more sobering as the doctor moved on to attend to Mercedes Gilder, by now separated from everybody else and awaiting the evaluation that would determine the rest of her life, "You just be thankful that Lowell Gilder wasn't a better shot."

"Believe me," Ben countered, "I am."

With the doctor moved on, the main job of fussing around Adam fell instead to Hoss and Little Joe, both of them sitting beside him and doing their best to reassure themselves he was, in fact, all right. Coming in to stand closer Ben picked some of the banter up with a fond smile,

"He shot you with your own gun?" Little Joe was gaping in outrage, watching as Adam turned weary but amused eyes in his direction. His youngest brother was carefully fingering the gun that Roy had retrieved from Lowell's cold fingers, wiped and given back to him, seemingly good as new.

"Money well spent, huh?" he drawled sleepily, half-noting Hoss' curious frown beside him,

"You still plan on keepin' it?"

"No," Adam responded ruefully, "You can have it,"

"Nuh-uh," Hoss snorted back quickly holding up his hands in submission, "I ain't touchin' that thing. Little Joe?"

Quickly the gun was laid back on the table, the capture of the engravings having lessened in appeal since having nearly lead to the downfall of their brother. Suddenly it was like a lit stick of dynamite.

"Hey, well don't look at me. I don't want it."

Adam rolled his eyes wryly,

"Great. An expensive gun that nobody wants to use. Guess I'll have to sell it back to Spence Pullen,"

Stepping in closer Ben allowed his smile to widen, feeling himself chuckle and finding three pairs of eyes turn his way in response,

"Think it's doubled in value already son?" he asked somewhat sarcastically. Adam groaned in response, the corners of his mouth quirking up alongside in vague amusement,

"Don't you start."

"Ready to go home?"

"I thought you'd never ask," replied Adam, releasing a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

Bracing himself against the floor, Adam started to push himself up on one arm, quickly relenting and letting his eager-to-help brothers take most of the weight before steadying him as he stood.

"Are you going to be okay to ride?" Ben asked in concern, watching his eldest son nod and doubting there was an injury in the world that would have provided another answer.

"I'll be fine Pa," Adam responded before pausing briefly, "My horse's in the barn,"

"The barn?"

A mild nod,

"They didn't want you to see..."

Nothing else needed explaining and briefly every un-injured member of the family bristled.

"Joe – ," Ben broke between them, not needing to say anything else.

"I'll get him Pa,"

He was gone from the room before anyone had time to blink, leaving Ben to take his place with another command at the ready,

"Hoss, go and get our horses ready, we're leaving as soon as we're mounted,"

"Yes Pa," the other replied dutifully, sliding out from underneath Adam's arm so gracefully and so carefully transferring the bulk of his brother's weight across to their father that Adam almost wasn't aware it had happened until his younger brother moved past them and out of the front door. In comparison, his pace was much slower.

"You all right Adam?" Ben asked gently after a little pause, interpreting a grunt of pain and reacting in instant concern.

"I'll be glad to get home," came the reply, not so much an answer as a change of topic. Ben took the hint, allowing them to move on in silence a moment longer, the peace eventually broken again by Adam, "Pa?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't – ," he paused briefly, although whether through pain or hesitancy Ben couldn't tell, "You don't blame yourself, do you?"

Stiffening slightly and knowing that Adam would feel it, Ben swallowed awkwardly, trying to sound light as he responded,

"Blame myself?"

"For what Mercedes became? Because you shouldn't you know."

Knowing that Adam wasn't going to buy anything but the truth, Ben nodded slowly,

"Shouldn't I?"

The response was firm.

"No. What happened to her would have happened with or without you. It wasn't Brian she hated Pa, it was herself. She hated this life – everything about it – and she blamed Brian just the same as she'd have blamed you."

It had always amazed Ben how perceptive his eldest could be, how level headed and enlightening. None more so apparently than when he'd been shot and left to bleed on the sitting room floor of a pair of killers. Involuntarily, Ben pulled him a little closer,

"Maybe you're right Adam. Maybe you're right."

Pausing briefly at the threshold, both men turned to take a final look at Lowell Gilder, lying where he'd been left, a short, sad life come to a sad end. But, Ben lamented as he clapped Adam on his good shoulder and wheeled him in the direction of the door, it could have been worse – it could have been a lot, lot worse. As things were he was returning home with his sons; his family.

He was a lucky man indeed.

End.


End file.
